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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847796">A Non-Offensive, Tasteful, Conventional Show</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam'>incorrectbatfam</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Young Justice - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Radio, Batfam Big Bang 2020, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slight OOC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:15:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847796</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>High school senior Tim Drake gets the chance of a lifetime when his father’s big-city radio station offers to put his basement-made show on the air. </p><p>Meanwhile, aspiring teen musician Conner Kent struggles to stake his claim in the industry without compromising who he is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bart Allen &amp; Kon-El | Conner Kent, Kon-El | Conner Kent &amp; Cassie Sandsmark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>216</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Batfam Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Tim</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualoftheblade/gifts">bisexualoftheblade</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerbutstillhere/gifts">Queerbutstillhere</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowlikestardust/gifts">snowlikestardust</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniNaCl/gifts">MiniNaCl</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p>“And we’re on the air in five…”</p><p>He turned on his computer—</p><p>“Four…”</p><p>—closed the door with his foot—</p><p>“Three…”</p><p>—adjusted the volume knobs on his mixer—</p><p>“Two…”</p><p>—settled in his old swivel chair—</p><p>“One.”</p><p>—and put on his trusty headset.</p><p>“Guys, gals, and nonbinary pals, you’re listening to The Bat’s Cave, where we do daily deep dives into the mysteries of life. I’m your host, Red Robin. As voted by you guys on social media, this evening’s topic will be: taking chances.”</p><p>The seventeen-year-old knew that to an outsider, it would appear as though he was talking to himself in a tiny, half-painted basement room. But the scratched silver laptop on his desk, connected to a cheap mixing console, indicated otherwise. In big green numbers, his monitors showed over eight thousand people tuning in from all over the city to listen to him. Well, his persona, at least. Tim Drake was a shy loner from Gotham; Red Robin was the real entertainer. </p><p>“When most people think of taking a chance, they think of taking a blind leap of faith when things are out of their control,” Tim said, tucking a lock of his overgrown black hair behind his ear. “Think of a coin flip. You can’t control whether it’s heads or tails; you can only make a guess and hope that probability is on your side.”</p><p>He subconsciously picked at his already short nails.</p><p>“I believe there’s more.”</p><p>Tim rolled his chair around the makeshift studio as he spoke. The smell of plaster tickled his nose and his socks did nothing to keep out the cold that seeped through the floor.</p><p>“There’s a field of science called Game Theory, wherein things that seem like random chance on the surface have some strategy—some rhyme or reason—behind them. Every move is deliberate. There’s no such thing as coincidence. Good things don’t happen to those who sit and wait and do as they’re told.”</p><p>Right, because Tim was <em> phenomenal </em> at taking risks and sticking up for himself. His existence wasn’t just in the service of other people, giving them everything they wanted without question. Hypocrisy was a sour taste that he had no choice but to swallow.</p><p>“Did you guys know that up until he was thirty, Harrison Ford was a carpenter?”</p><p>He paused, taking joy in picturing the listeners reacting with a cartoonish <em> “I had no idea!” </em></p><p>“It’s true. His big break happened when he was working on a movie set. He wound up auditioning for that movie and landed one of the most iconic roles in Hollywood’s biggest blockbuster. In case you don’t know, I’m talking about Star Wars.”</p><p>He paused to adjust a knob on his mixer. The static surrounding his voice lifted.</p><p>“Or how about Vera Wang? She trained to be a figure skater from a young age, but wound up not making the U.S. Olympic team. Then she spent seventeen years at Vogue and another two at Ralph Lauren. She didn’t design her first dress until she was forty. But she <em> did </em> it, if you know what I’m saying.”</p><p>Tim paused for a moment, letting the listeners take it all in.</p><p>“In essence: you don’t take chances, you make them.”</p><p>Tim noticed a few glowing telephone icons on the screen. He figured he couldn't monologue forever, so he clicked the first one. </p><p>“Caller number one, you’re on the air. Tell us about your experience with chances.”</p><p>“How about right now?” the caller joked. “I mean, what are the odds you picked me for the third night in a row?”</p><p>Tim smiled. “Ah, Superboy. My biggest fan.”</p><p>He had no idea who the caller was, other than the fact that the person was a boy around his age who went by a self-proclaimed nickname.</p><p>“Why don’t you enlighten us with your story?” Tim said.</p><p>“Well, you know how I have a band?” the caller asked.</p><p>“How could I not? I don’t even know you but it’s all you talk about.”</p><p>A hush fell over the line for a short second before Superboy said, “People keep telling me I won’t make it in the industry. That I should just give up. Focus on school. Find a ‘normal’ job.”</p><p>Tim adjusted his chair.</p><p>“I get that,” he replied. “You won’t believe how many times I’ve been told the same thing. My dad wants me to take over the family business, but I’m just not into that.” He spun the chair around to face the computer. “I’d ask what you plan to do about it, but something tells me I already know the answer.”</p><p>The caller chuckled. “Hey, I’m not going down that easily. Music means everything to me. It’s worth taking a chance. Or, as you said, <em> making </em> a chance. I’m doing what I love, regardless of other people’s bullsh–”</p><p>“Watch your language, this is live.”</p><p>A noise in the background drew the caller away.</p><p>“Sorry,” Superboy said, “I gotta head out, but keep up the good work.”</p><p>“Alright, Supes, catch you later.”</p><p>Tim switched from his headset to the regular microphone on his desk.</p><p>“That was fun, wasn’t it?” he commented. “I bet you guys are tired of all this talking, so let’s let the music speak for us.” </p><p>He tapped a few buttons on his control panel. “Keeping up with the theme, here is ‘High Hopes’ by Panic! At The Disco.”</p><p>Tim muted his mic as the song played. He closed his eyes and leaned back. </p><p>Not even two lines into the first verse, there was a knock at the door.</p><p>“Who is it and what do you want?”</p><p>From the other side, a grating laugh replied, “Is that any way to speak to your big bro?”</p><p>“Go away, Dick. You know this is when I do my show.”</p><p>Dick let himself in, much to Tim’s annoyance. He mumbled to himself about buying a lock as he glared at the college student.</p><p>“What part of ‘go away’ did you not get?”</p><p>Dick leaned against the doorframe. “What do you want for dinner?”</p><p>“I dunno,” Tim replied. “Chicken?”</p><p>Dick shifted his weight. “Too bad, we’re having fish.”</p><p>“You always do this,” he complained.</p><p>“Also,” Dick said, grinning. “Dad’s back from his business trip. We'll be having family dinner again for the first time in, like, forever.”</p><p>Tim’s eyes lit up. “Tell him I’ll be up in five.”</p><p>Turning back around, he added, “And close the door when you leave.”</p><p>He sighed when Dick left the door open anyway.</p><p>As soon as the song ended, Tim switched on the microphone and spoke.</p><p>“Once again, folks, that was ‘High Hopes’ by Panic! At The Disco. I’ll be ending the show early tonight, but be sure to tune in at the same time tomorrow for more of The Bat’s Cave. This is Red Robin, signing off.”</p><p> </p><p>Upstairs, Tim grinned when he saw his brothers, dad, and Alfred. He greeted Bruce with a one-armed hug.</p><p>“Hey, Dad.” Tim greeted him with a one-arm hug. “How was Italy?”</p><p>“Beautiful, but I happened to be there in the middle of a record-breaking heatwave,” the man replied, ruffling Tim’s hair. “What are the odds of that, huh?”</p><p>“Damn, that’s crazy.”</p><p>“Language.”</p><p>Tim rolled his eyes but couldn’t help a smile. “I’m not a kid anymore.”</p><p>“You always will be to me.”</p><p>While most teens abhorred family meals, Tim welcomed them like a breath of fresh air. He didn’t even mind that it interrupted his passion project.</p><p>Their butler cleared his throat. “If I recall, Master Bruce, I caught you saying far worse at a younger age.”</p><p>“I’m trying to set a good example for my sons, Alfred!”</p><p>Tim’s second-eldest brother, Jason, reached for the salt shaker. “That’s some younger sibling privilege. Remember last semester when Alfred drove to my apartment ‘cause I said ‘crap’ on Roy Harper’s Snapchat story?”</p><p>A chorus of giggles rang around the table.</p><p>“What about the time Damian set that bush on fire?” Dick added, pointing his fork at an olive-skinned ten-year-old. “He got grounded for, like, an afternoon. <em> That’s </em> younger sibling privilege. </p><p>“Young<em> est </em> sibling privilege,” Jason corrected.</p><p>Damian scoffed. “It was an accident. Plus, Richard never got in trouble for his magazines full of naked people.”</p><p>They all turned to Dick. Red-face, the eldest sputtered, “Why were you looking through my stuff?!?”</p><p>Jason remarked, “Honestly, I expected as much from a guy named ‘Dick’.”</p><p>Tim sat back and enjoyed the show. Damian lobbed a spoonful of mashed potato at the other two. Jason stabbed his fork into the table by Damian’s plate and while those two fought, Dick seized the opportunity to hog the entire mac and cheese bowl for himself.</p><p>As Alfred refilled Tim’s glass, he said, “I hope you know you are my favorite, Master Timothy.”</p><p>Tim laughed. “Didn’t doubt it for a second.”</p><p>Bruce wiped the corner of his lip. “If you kids are done, I have some exciting news.”</p><p>He opened his laptop, scooted closer to Tim, and said, “You know how we’re partnered with STAR Entertainment?”</p><p>The boy nodded despite being unsure where this was going. Bruce clicked on a file. To Tim’s surprise, a transcript of one of his old shows popped up.</p><p>“I never took your interests seriously before,” Bruce said, “and that’s on me. Looking back, I can see you’re incredibly talented. If you can do this well with a passion project, that makes me wonder what you can do with real resources. That’s why, on the flight home, I called Oliver Queen and discussed the possibility of giving you a paid position at STAR Radio.”</p><p>Tim gaped, barely registering his brothers clapping him on the shoulder.</p><p>“You’re kidding me.”</p><p>Bruce smiled and shook his head. “Have you ever known me to joke around? I sent Oliver one of your recordings and he loved it. He said it’s everything he’s looking for and wants to put The Bat’s Cave on the air. What do you say? Are you ready for the big leagues?”</p><p>Excitement bubbled through Tim’s body and spilled forth in astonished laughter. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing! He jumped out of his chair and threw his arms around his father.</p><p>“Yes!” he exclaimed. “I’m ready. I’ll do it. Holy sh–”</p><p>“Language,” Jason teased.</p><p>Tim waved him off and hugged Bruce tighter. “<em>Thankyouthankyouthankyou! </em>I won’t let you down, I promise.”</p><p>Bruce smiled. “I know you won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Though the job didn’t start for another week, the adrenaline rush from the offer stripped away Tim’s usual inhibitions in the days that followed. He wrote scripts for his show not in the darkness of his room, but rather found himself in parks and open-air cafés, watching the world go by as he tapped away on his laptop. He posted on his personal Instagram, including a selfie that he didn’t take down after five minutes. He even went on a mostly-uphill bike ride with Dick, despite the grueling August heat.</p><p>And, for the first time in his high school career, Tim went to a party. Not a two-person sleepover. Not a <em> Dungeons and Dragons </em>session. A real, honest-to-God party.</p><p>He wasn’t exclusively invited—Tim was nowhere near popular enough. Rather, it was an end-of-summer block party open to everyone who went to his high school.</p><p>Tim milled around the grassy neighborhood park with a red cup that he didn’t intend on drinking from. He attempted to engage in conversations with a few other partygoers, but it wasn’t long before it became apparent that he couldn’t sustain one for more than thirty seconds. So he hung off to the side, making himself content with consuming the entire snack bar.</p><p>On a raised platform, a rock band that Tim had never seen before was doing last-minute equipment checks. There were three members, plus a couple of their friends helping to set up. Stationed at the drums was a ginger in a DIY crop top with a crumpled chip bag shoved in the back pocket of his jean shorts. Next to him stood a blonde girl in a pleated skirt and tennis shoes, beside a blue keyboard covered in random stickers and peeled-off merchandise labels. They looked like interesting people, but it was the third and final member that truly snagged his attention. </p><p>Tim’s eyes followed who he presumed was the lead guitarist and singer. He appeared around Tim’s age, but it was obvious that he was <em>way </em>out of Tim’s league. Sweeping charcoal hair in the form of an undercut fell over beach tanned skin. The boy donned a spiked leather jacket, vintage t-shirt, and jeans that hugged his body. He turned his back, and Tim took advantage of that to drink in every smooth curve and chiseled angle, all the way down to the guitar-calloused fingertips. </p><p>He <em>needed </em>to get a better view. As if on autopilot, Tim gravitated towards the front.</p><p>The singer asked his bandmates if they were ready and with that, he adjusted the mic stand and faced the audience.</p><p>He hollered, “How’s everyone doing tonight?”</p><p>Tim flinched as the people around him screamed at the top of their lungs.</p><p>“Awesome,” the singer said. “I’m Kon, she’s Cassie, and he’s Bart. Together we are Young Justice!”</p><p>When the applause died down, the singer—Kon, Tim would have to remember that—said, “Our first song of the night is a cover of a song that I’m sure everyone here knows. This is <em> We Got The Beat</em>. Hit it, guys!”</p><p>Tim whipped out his phone. As they played, his eyes followed Kon as he moved around the stage, encouraging the people to shout louder, dance faster, party harder. Tim did shift his focus at one point, when, to the crowd’s awe, the drummer broke out a pair of flaming drumsticks mid-song. Based on the other two’s wide eyes, Tim could tell it wasn’t planned.</p><p>But the drummer pulled it off perfectly, and with that, Tim ended the recording and uploaded it to Instagram before tucking the phone away.</p><p>Gaze still fixated on Kon, Tim expertly shuffled away from the other people. The snack bar provided just as good of a view, plus they had hot dogs. He wasn’t alone either. A Hispanic boy around the same age as he was refilling his drink while watching the band too. He looked nice enough to give the small talk another try.</p><p>“Hey,” Tim said. “Cool show, huh?”</p><p>The guy nodded. “I’ve heard them practice before but this is my first time at one of their live concerts.”</p><p>“Really? You know them?”</p><p>“I know one of them,” he said. “‘Cause we’re dating.”</p><p>“Which one?”</p><p>“Take a guess.”</p><p>“Please don’t tell me it’s the lead singer,” Tim said.</p><p>The boy threw his head back. “Nah, he’s not my type. The drummer, on the other hand…” He drew a phone. “Can you get my photo? I wanna remember my boyfriend’s first show.”</p><p>Tim gladly took the camera and snapped a few pictures of the boy before saying, “Can you do the same for me?”</p><p>“‘Course.” Eyebrows furrowed, however, when he held out the phone in front of him, and the boy said, “Man, you need to turn off notifications. I can’t get a decent shot.”</p><p>“The heck?”</p><p>Tim’s eyes widened. He meant to post the video to his personal account, but instead… </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>RedRobin</b>
  </p>
  <p>[Video]</p>
  <p>
    <em> 13,305 likes </em>
  </p>
  <p><b>RedRobin</b> First time hearing them and I love them already!</p>
  <p>He goofed. That was Tim’s first thought as he scrolled through the never-ending barrage of comments. </p>
  <p><b>Stephspoilers</b> They sound awesome!</p>
  <p><b>dukethomas</b> Finally, something new</p>
  <p><b>xx_cullenrow_xx</b> get these ppl a record label asap!!!</p>
  <p><b>JasonIsDeadInside</b> Those guys rule, still think Red Robin’s a dweeb</p>
</blockquote><p>He just hoped the band didn’t mind a little extra publicity. </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><b>Official_STAR_Entertainment</b> What’s the name of the band?</p>
</blockquote><p>…Or make that a <em> lot </em>of publicity. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Kon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We made it!” Bart exclaimed. “This is so crash!”</p><p>“Keep it down,” said Cassie. “Technically we haven’t made it yet. We still gotta meet with the executives and sign the deal. Also, quit trying to make ‘crash’ happen. It’s not gonna happen.”</p><p>“It’s gonna be the next ‘bootylicious’, just you wait," he said. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t help it! This is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. Can you believe it, Kon? Kon?”</p><p>The boy in question stopped paying attention, lingering behind as his eyes glued themselves to the newest promotional poster, featuring a red-and-yellow bird logo against a black background. The blocky text read: <em> “STAR Radio presents: The Bat’s Cave with Red Robin, weekday evenings from 5 to 7 on FM 52.1.” </em>Kon wasn’t sure why, but for some reason, he thought he could finally put a face to the name, even though he knew that would defeat the purpose of anonymity.</p><p>Cassie marched over to grab his elbow, sneakers squeaking. “For your information, STAR Records is this way.”</p><p>“Wait. Before we go…” Kon patted the many pockets of his jacket before he fished out a cell phone. “Take my picture with it. It might be the closest I come to meeting him.”</p><p>She held up the phone. “Fine, I guess we have a minute. Say ‘I’m totally obsessed with a disembodied voice!’”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>The camera clicked, capturing Kon's unflattering wide-mouthedness.</p><p>“Not bad,” Cassie commented. “I’ve seen you look worse.”</p><p>“Ha ha.” He took the phone back. “I’m not ‘totally obsessed’ with Red Robin.”</p><p>“No,” Bart said. “You just think about him twenty-four seven and write all your songs about him and probably own a body pillow with his name written on it in Sharpie ‘cause you don’t know what he looks like. I’d say that’s the right level of obsessed.”</p><p>“Watch it, or I might ‘accidentally’ delete your songs from the album.”</p><p>Bart gasped. “You wouldn’t!”</p><p>Cassie cut in. “Be nice. Plenty of people fall madly in love with celebrities and stalk them in their free time. Unfortunately, Kon, we have a busy day today, so save your fantasies for later.”</p><p>Kon half-scoffed, half-laughed. “Both of you suck. Red Robin’s the reason we’re here in the first place, ‘cause he’s just that great.”</p><p>Bart took to Kon’s left as they made their way down the zigzagging halls. </p><p>“Kon and Red Robin, sittin’ in a tree–”</p><p>Cassie took to his right. </p><p>“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”</p><p>“You’re not getting any more of my mom’s pie.”</p><p>As the trio made their way from the public space to the private offices, the halls narrowed until their shoulders were squeezing together. Kon shimmied out of the sweaty band sandwich, once again falling one step behind. While the other two continued chattering, he let his thoughts run wild. This was <em> real </em> and they were on the fast track to tour buses, sold-out arenas, and VIP passes. He could already feel the heat of technicolor lights shining on their faces and hear his guitar across Madison Square Garden. And maybe, just maybe, he’d find out who Red Robin was. They’d sneak out of a party, where Kon would confess his undying love and Red Robin would say he thought the same way and they’d share a moonlight kiss and–</p><p>“Here we are,” said Cassie. “Office number 7878.”</p><p>Bart pressed his ear to the door. “Don’t hear anything. You think they’re there?”</p><p>The other two joined him, straining to figure out what lay beyond the heavy oak door. It was moments like that when Kon wished he had super-hearing.</p><p>They were met with air as the wood in front of them disappeared. The teens collapsed beside polished shoes belonging to a tall, bald executive. Kon scrambled to his feet, followed by Bart and Cassie. For someone who worked with rock bands, the man looked stuffy and lifeless. Where he had a sterling silver wristwatch, Cassie had glow-in-the-dark wristbands and animal-patterned slap bracelets. While he had polished black loafers, Bart had crimson-and-gold sneakers with lightning bolts drawn in scented marker. And though he had a beige three-piece suit, Kon had a leather jacket adorned with pins that all of a sudden seemed woefully inadequate.</p><p>Kon cleared his throat and stepped forward, offering a handshake.</p><p>“I’m Conner, but you can call me Kon. That’s Cassie and Bart.”</p><p>“Lex Luthor. I’m one of the executive producers here at STAR.”</p><p>Luthor scanned the bunch and Kon was positive that his heartbeat was the loudest thing in the room. The awkward handshake hung in the air like a sour note until Kon dropped his arm and shoved his hands in his pocket.</p><p>“Take a seat,” said the man. </p><p>While Kon and Cassie pulled out their chairs at the long conference table, Bart mimed lifting his and running out the door with it. The other two gave him a look that read,<em> “Really?” </em></p><p>“He said to take a seat,” Bart replied. “Just… trying to break the ice.”</p><p>“Our CEO—Oliver Queen—won’t be joining us today as he is currently out of the country. However, he told me that he wanted your talent.” From a nondescript filing cabinet, Luthor drew a stack of papers. “Is there an adult with you?”</p><p>Bart and Cassie pointed to Kon.</p><p>“Me,” Kon said. “I just turned eighteen.”</p><p>“Good, then you’re able to sign all the paperwork on behalf of your band.”</p><p>“Awesome!” Kon reached for the mug of pens, only to be stopped by Luthor’s hand.</p><p>“Before you sign anything, we need to review your material,” said Luthor. “Make sure it meets industry standards and has the potential to do well in the market. Show me what you have.”</p><p>Kon motioned to Cassie and she drew a laptop from her bag, plugging in a bright red USB. </p><p>“Here’s our current setlist,” she said. “Other than one cover, the rest are originals.” She pulled up a playlist with eleven songs and turned the computer around. “The first six were written by Kon. The next two are Bart’s and the last two are mine.”</p><p>Luthor pointed to the second track. “Play that one.”</p><p>She hit the play button, and out flowed Kon’s voice in a pop-rock love ballad. Kon smiled, pride swelling in his chest as the second chorus gave way to a guitar solo that took forever to write and even longer to perfect. He could still feel the calluses on his fingers from the countless hours practicing. Looking at Luthor, however, the man’s expression was as clear as smog.</p><p>Once the song ended, Luthor pointed to Kon. “You’re the lead singer, yes?”</p><p>“Yeah. Er, yes sir.”</p><p>“Interesting. May I take a look at the lyrics?”</p><p>“Yeah, of course,” Cassie said, fumbling through her bag. “Which one’s yours, Kon?”</p><p>“The blue one.”</p><p>She handed him a blue spiral notebook covered in stickers with an eighth note–shaped paperclip as a bookmark. Kon flipped to the page and handed it to Luthor. Luthor’s eyes darted across the page before he set the notebook on the table.</p><p>Kon bit his lip. “So? What do you think?”</p><p>Luthor clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ll give it to you straight. You have a solid rhythm, a melody that flows well, and a remarkable voice. Not to mention, you kids are all young and good-looking with a fresh sound. I think you can be the next big thing.”</p><p>Bart whooped at the top of his lungs. Cassie silently pumped her fists. Kon beamed from ear to ear.</p><p>“I just have one suggestion,” said Luthor.</p><p>“Sure, what is it?” Kon asked.</p><p>“If I were you, I would change the ‘him’ in the chorus to a ‘her’.”</p><p>The revelry halted like a record scratch. Kon jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing!</p><p>“You want to change my song?” he asked incredulously.</p><p>“Only a small part. Everything else is fine,” Luthor said. “Since you’re just starting in the industry, you need to cater to the people. And the last thing you want is for them to think you’re…” He trailed off.</p><p>Kon crossed his arms. “Think I’m what?”</p><p>Luthor gestured meaninglessly. “You know.”</p><p>“That I’m <em> gay </em>?”</p><p>“You don’t need to say it out loud.”</p><p>Kon’s eyebrows scrunched. “That’s straightwashing!” He turned to Bart and Cassie. “Guys, back me up here.”</p><p>Cassie stood up and placed a hand on Kon’s shoulder. Looking Luthor in the eye, she said, “Kon has a point. We worked hard on our music and they should be played as they are.”</p><p>A reptilian smile stretched across the man’s face. “Now, now, no need to make a fuss. I’m not trying to change your sound, I just want to help you thrive. This is a highly competitive industry, and the last thing you want is content that may be offensive. You understand, right?”</p><p>Cassie swallowed and shoved her hands in her pockets. “Well…” </p><p>Bart piped in, “It’s one word. Maybe we should just take the deal.”</p><p>Kon whirled around to face Bart. “You can’t be serious!”</p><p>Bart shrugged. “We can always come out later. When folks are ready.”</p><p>“What are we supposed to write about ‘till then, huh? ‘Cause I don’t wanna lie to people,” said Kon.</p><p>Bart sank into his chair and went quiet.</p><p>“You write what people know and love,” Luthor said. “He was a boy, she was a girl. Can I make it any more obvious?”</p><p>Kon looked to Cassie, who made an “I don’t know” gesture.</p><p>“Excuse me for a moment.” Kon snatched the notebook and marched into the hall.</p><p>The corridors, with framed vinyls adorning the walls and plastic plants sitting by every door, snaked on forever as he made his way down. Typing could be heard behind some doors. Behind others, he heard powerpoints clicking and the long whirring of people microwaving their lunch.</p><p>“Change my lyrics,” he grumbled, kicking at the lint on the coarse carpet. “Why don’t you change your attitude, Mister Big-Time Hollywood Executive?”</p><p>Those were <em> his </em> songs, after all. <em> He </em> broke fifty dollars worth of guitar strings trying to come up with the chords. <em> He </em> spent days on end toiling over a single line. They were Kon’s babies and he’d be damned if he let anyone take that away from him. </p><p>Hugging the notebook close, Kon pushed open the metal door leading to a stairwell. The smell of mothballs and disinfectant stung his nostrils. Overhead, winding pipes droned. A dull <em> thud </em> reverberated as the door closed behind him. Sitting on the top step, Kon ran his thumb over the metal spiral binding his essence in ivory sheet music.</p><p>He exhaled and combed his fingers through his hair. Sketched in the margins of a dog-eared page, next to a heart containing “KK + RR”, was a curved logo vaguely resembling a bird’s head.—the logo of the person who gave him this opportunity in the first place, served on a golden platter. Kon knew it’d be hard to find another record label that would take on Young Justice. But would his idol want him to compromise who he was in exchange for money and notoriety? Red Robin was all about being real. It was what Kon loved about him.</p><p>What would Red Robin do?</p><p>“HELP!”</p><p>Caught off-guard, Kon leaned over the railing to see what the commotion was.</p><p>At the bottom of the stairwell was a pale, dark-haired teenager in a baggy Wayne Enterprises sweatshirt. He was sitting on the dusty concrete floor, shoulder-deep in the slot of a vending machine, trying to wrench himself out to no avail. Inside the machine, a bag hung from the spiral rack by the corner of the wrapper.</p><p>Upon seeing Kon, the boy’s blue-gray eyes lit up. “Hey! Over here!”</p><p>The boy’s face was painted in an almost comic desperation, as if he’d been there for hours. Kon stifled a laugh as he tucked the notebook under his arm and slid down the banister.</p><p>A smile tugged on his lips as he said, “Talk about being stuck in a hard place.”</p><p>“I just wanted my gummy worms,” the boy bemoaned, his face reddening.</p><p>Kon drew the paper clip from his notebook and unfolded one end. “Alright, hold still.”</p><p>He found a brass lock on one side of the glass panel and stuck the paper clip inside. His tongue stuck out from the corner of his mouth as he jiggled the improvised lockpick around until he heard the soft <em> click </em> of the mechanism. The panel swung open, nearly hitting the boy in the face. He slid his arm out and took his snack.</p><p>“Thanks. I, um, really appreciate it,” the boy stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about that.”</p><p>“Not a problem.” Kon grabbed a candy bar for himself before closing the panel. “I better get going.”</p><p>He bid the stranger adieu and jogged back to Luthor’s office. The possibilities tumbled through his mind like a bingo roller and Kon was nowhere closer to a satisfying decision. He took a deep breath as his fingers wrapped around the doorknob.</p><p>“Welcome back,” said Luthor. “I was talking to Mr. Allen and Miss Sandsmark, and they seemed keen on a compromise. However, they wanted your input as the band leader and only adult.”</p><p>Kon apprehensively glanced at his friends.</p><p>Cassie stepped forward. “We thought it’d be a good idea to write some new songs about more general topics.”</p><p>“And we can archive our current material. Maybe bring it back later,” Bart added. “That way we don’t need to change any of our lyrics.”</p><p>“Guys…” he trailed off.</p><p>“It’s the perfect setup,” Luthor said. “You’ll be able to put yourselves out there risk-free. What do you say?”</p><p>Kon chewed on his bottom lip. His friends’ looks bored into him like lasers. Every inch of his body prickled. The <em> tick-tick-tick </em> of the wall clock grew louder, pounding like the blood in his ears. He looked from the papers to Luthor to his bandmates before his eyes landed on the notebook. </p><p>Kon shot them an apologetic look as he answered, “I’ll think about it and get back to you.”</p><p>“Of course.” Luthor drew a black-and-white business card from his blazer pocket and handed it to Kon. “Take your time. Give me a call once you’ve made your decision.”</p><p>The card was heavy in Kon’s palm, like a cinder block. He slipped it under the front cover of his notebook and did his best to ignore the disappointed faces of his friends.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Tim</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> The station manager clapped Tim’s shoulder. “Amazing first show. You’re a natural! I just have one little piece of feedback.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tim raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You might wanna change your intro.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “My intro?” he asked. “You mean the ‘guys, gals, and nonbinary pals’?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Exactly. That,” the manager said. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tim scratched his head. “What’s wrong with it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s… how do I say it?” The manager scratched her chin. “Kids don’t know what this ‘nonbinary’ stuff is and you don’t wanna confuse them. This is a family station. You understand, right?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim tossed and turned, unable to get the manager’s words out of his head. </p><p>He didn’t understand. As far as he was aware, his audience hadn’t changed. They were still the same demographic—excluded, overlooked, brushed under the rug. In need of guidance; a subtle nudge forward. Not unlike himself. It was why he started the Bat’s Cave in the first place: to foster inclusion and give people a sense of belonging. </p><p>And the executives wanted to strip that away. Could they do that? Did he relinquish all power when he signed the contract? He’d read through it line by line. Perhaps he missed something in the fine print?</p><p>Or perhaps he was overthinking and should just be grateful for the opportunity he’d been given. </p><p>Still, something felt off.</p><p>Tim buried his face in his pillow and groaned, “Why is my life so complicated?”</p><p>A muffled “shut up” came from the other side of the wall.</p><p>“You shut up, Jason,” Tim snapped. “I’m having a career crisis over here!”</p><p>“Have a quieter crisis then, it’s three in the morning!”</p><p>From another room, Dick chimed, “Crisis? Who’s having a crisis?”</p><p>Down the hall, a door creaked and Bruce shouted, “If you boys don’t go back to sleep, your only crisis will be spending the weekend cleaning the garage!”</p><p>“Tt. Serves them right.”</p><p>“That includes you too, Damian!”</p><p>And so with zero sleep under his belt, Tim embarked on the eight-hour torture ride known as the first day of school. Not even Alfred’s strongest brew could save him from dozing off at his locker. While other students reunited with their friends and celebrated the beginning of senior year, Tim made his way to the classroom, found a desk far away from others, and chugged the rest of his lukewarm coffee, shuddering as the bitterness coated his tongue.</p><p>On the wall, a poster with the dress code stared down at him. Tim gave it the finger before flipping his hood up and putting his head down on the desk.</p><p>Ten minutes later, a bell startled him awake. Blinking slowly, Tim watched the teacher introduce herself and begin taking attendance.</p><p>“Bartholomew Allen?”</p><p>“Just Bart is fine.”</p><p>Tim turned to see the drummer from the block party. He knew that most people at the party went to his school, but seeing Bart, sitting up front, dressed in garish tie-dye and tapping his pencils against a book, felt surreal. </p><p>“Stephanie Brown?”</p><p>“Here.”</p><p>“Cassandra Cain?”</p><p>“Present.”</p><p>“Timothy Drake?”</p><p>If Bart was there, then that meant the other band members had to be somewhere too. Tim scanned the room but didn’t see the lead singer. Tim figured the boy’s probably in another class.</p><p>“Is there a Timothy Drake here?” the teacher repeated.</p><p>A blue-haired girl elbowed him. “Dude, is that you?”</p><p>“Oh, here!” he stammered. “I, uh, go by Tim.”</p><p>A few of his classmates snickered as his voice cracked. Tim retreated further into the safety of his oversized hoodie, not looking anyone in the eye. The teacher went down the rest of the list, marking only one absence, before handing out ivory packets.</p><p>“These,” she said, “contain your syllabus as well as guidelines for the term project. It’s worth thirty percent of your grade, which is why I want you to get started as early as possible. You will work with a partner to write a report on a significant event in modern history.”</p><p>Two by two, the students paired off like sea otters, brainstorming ideas for their project. Vietnam War, Civil Rights Movement, Roe v. Wade. Bart, to his partner’s mortification, stood on a chair and loudly claimed the Sixties counterculture, forcing Tim to begrudgingly cross that off his list. After a few minutes, everyone had someone to work with—except Tim.</p><p>He walked up to the teacher. “Um, Ms. Prince, I don’t have a partner.”</p><p>“Hm…” the woman said. “You could make a group of three. Or we have one person absent. The two of you can pair up when he’s here.”</p><p>Tim scratched the back of his head. “I guess. What should I do ‘till then?”</p><p>“Come up with some ideas that you can talk about later,” she answered. </p><p>He sat at his desk for another five minutes before the door burst open. Tim’s eyes widened and he immediately pulled the drawstrings on his hoodie, concealing his imperfections—the dark circles under his eyes, his dry skin, and his disheveled hair, which looked like a bird’s nest caught in an oil spill. Only the tip of his nose was left exposed.</p><p>Tim sank into his chair as the teacher directed the latecomer to him. A chair squeaked as someone pulled up beside him. He loosened his hood slightly and glanced at the other boy. Sweeping black hair, lazy smile. Tim’s heart skipped a beat when he realized how close their knees were.</p><p>“Hey,” the boy said. “I’m Kon.”</p><p>“I know,” Tim replied.</p><p>Kon tilted his head. “What?”</p><p>“I-I mean, you know. Because that’s your name. And I know now ‘cause you said it.” His face burned. </p><p><em> “Oh my god, shut up,” </em> his brain pleaded.</p><p>Raising an eyebrow, Kon asked, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere?”</p><p>
  <em> “Crap.” </em>
</p><p>Tim swallowed a lump in his throat. “Well, I just have one of those faces, you know. Average guy. Nothing special. Basically, like, everywhere.”</p><p>Kon snapped his fingers. “You’re the kid who got stuck in that vending machine!”</p><p>Shrinking back, Tim re-tightened the drawstrings. Blood rushed to his ears, every heartbeat louder than a bass drum.</p><p>“Hey, Bart!” Kon called. “This is the guy I was telling you about.”</p><p>“The vending machine guy?” Bart asked. </p><p>“Yes, him!”</p><p>“My name’s Tim, by the way,” he mumbled. “Thanks for asking.”</p><p>Twenty-two pairs of eyes bore into his skull as Kon and Bart drew the class’s attention to him. Half of the kids giggled and whispered among themselves. The other half watched with pity and secondhand embarrassment. Tim almost sang Hallelujah when the teacher called for everyone to look up front.</p><p>At the end of class, Tim found Kon chatting with Bart and some other kids. Textbooks hugged close, Tim took in just how much taller Kon was before tapping him on the shoulder.</p><p>Kon glanced at him. “Hey, didn’t see you there. What’s up?”</p><p>Tim rubbed his neck, voice going up half an octave. “I-I was wondering if you kinda-sorta-maybe wanna, um, meet at the library after school? I have, like, an hour before work. We could start some preliminary research and stuff. Figure out our topic?”</p><p>Kon winced. “Sorry, I actually have something after school. But if you wanna get a head start, be my guest. You can get me caught up later.”</p><p>Tim coughed and gazed at the floor, taking a sudden interest in the swirling carpet pattern. “O-okay. I’ll, um, see you around?”</p><p>Kon waved. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. </em>
</p><p>Tim glanced at the wall clock. He had less than ten minutes left to peruse the library shelves before Alfred arrived, and he was nowhere closer to finding a good enough project topic. Fingers pulling away from the shelves, Tim walked to the table where his backpack was, tripping over a chair and earning a dirty look from the elderly librarian in the process.</p><p>Just as he zipped his backpack, someone tapped him on the shoulder. When Tim saw who it was, hope fluttered in his chest.</p><p>“Kon! Y-you made it,” he said. “I thought you were busy?”</p><p>Kon shrugged. “I have a few minutes to spare.”</p><p>Tim grinned. “Awesome! I was doing some research and I narrowed down some topic we could discuss and–”</p><p>“Hang on,” Kon said. “Before we do that, there’s something I gotta ask.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Tim tilted his head.</p><p>Kon shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s kid, right?”</p><p>“Um, yes?” </p><p>“And he’s got connections in the music industry, right? Like friends or something who own record labels and radio stations?”</p><p>“Well, yeah,” Tim answered, fiddling with his sleeve. “I don’t see what that has to do with–”</p><p>A red USB was placed in his hand. “Do me a favor: tell your dad to give this to his friends.” Kon also handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s my number. Tell me when that’s done.”</p><p>As fast as Tim’s hopes had risen, they were crushed like a butterfly underfoot.</p><p>Tim slipped the thumb drive into his pocket, mumbling, “Will do.”</p><p>He flinched when Kon clapped his shoulder. “Cool! I gotta get going, but I’ll see you in class. And don’t forget about our project!”</p><p>Blinking away the mist in his eyes, Tim watched Kon jog out the door and hop into a car with his bandmates, zooming off without a care in the world. </p><p>Dragging his feet along the carpet, Tim made his way through the fingerprint-smudged glass doors, adding his own to the collection. The first wispy chill of autumn tickled his skin as he stepped onto the damp sidewalk. Yellow leaves rustled on their branches, clinging to the last dredges of summer. Tim let out a small whine of disgust as he crossed paths with a long, stringy earthworm. He checked his phone to find a voicemail from Alfred saying he was stuck in traffic and would be late.</p><p>
  <em> Plip. </em>
</p><p>He wiped a large droplet off his screen and looked up.</p><p>
  <em> Plip, plip, plip. </em>
</p><p>Tim groaned. This might as well happen.</p><p>
  <em> Plip plip plip plip plip. </em>
</p><p>He flipped his hood up, hugged himself close, and sniffled.</p><p><em> “It’s just one bad day,” </em> he thought, wiping his eyes with the floppy sweatshirt sleeve. </p><p>A sleek black car pulled up to the curb. The passenger side window rolled down and Damian pointed to the back seat.</p><p>Tim muttered, “You’re, like, twelve. Why are you up there?”</p><p>He slid into the back, squeezing next to a big black dog with a cone around its neck.</p><p>Alfred asked, “How was your day, Master Timothy?”</p><p>Crossing his arms, Tim pressed his body against the window and let out a single inhuman grunt.</p><p> </p><p>“Good evening, everyone. You’re listening to The Bat’s Cave, where we do daily deep dives into the mysteries of life. I’m your host, Red Robin.” Tim grimaced but continued. “I hope your day’s been better than mine because today was… rough.”</p><p>Red walls surrounded him on three sides, decorated to his liking—a Guns ‘N Roses photo here, a Star Wars poster there. A Journey vinyl hung above the doorway on the fourth wall; the rest of the space was taken up by a glass panel, behind which crew members were hard at work. Tim smiled slightly when one gave him an encouraging thumbs-up.</p><p>“Nobody likes being taken advantage of,” he said. “I think that goes without saying.”</p><p>He leaned forward, plucking a fidget spinner from a “World’s Okayest Brother” mug. Tim briefly glanced at the monitor showing his listener count—ten thousand and counting.</p><p>“A lot of times, it happens without us knowing. We don’t realize we’re being used until the damage has been done.” He breathed deeply and looked up at the ceiling, sucking the emotions back in—he had a show to do. “It’s honestly the worst feeling, finding out that someone only wants your skills or money or whatever. That’s just… heartbreaking.”</p><p>Tim began scrolling through the seemingly endless playlist on his laptop. “And no offense, but if you knowingly treat others like that, well… I have nothing to say to you.”</p><p>“Is it so hard to ask that people treat each other like, well, people?” He sighed, mouse hovering over the longest song he had. “Anyway, here is ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.”</p><p>Muting the mic, Tim slumped back, heart cracking just a little, like an ice pick being driven into a glacier.</p><p>A short buzz jolted him out of his thoughts. Prying the phone from his back pocket, he opened it to find a message from Dick that said: </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>‘Sup, Timmy</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tim texted back, glancing at how many minutes were left on the song.</p><p>
  <b>Doing my show.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>And wallowing in my emotions.</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>Finish wallowing soon, we’re going to Olive Garden</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>He arched an eyebrow.</p><p>
  <b>You guys hate Olive Garden.</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>Yeah, but you like it</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>Why?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Did I forget my birthday again?</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>Dami told us you were having a bad day</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>And I can’t think of a bad day you had that wasn’t fixed with breadsticks</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>The widest grin broke out on Tim’s face. Tucking the phone away, he turned back to the show with renewed confidence, already forgetting about that (unfairly hot) jerkface Kon Kent.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Kon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “Thank God for gas leaks.” </em>
</p><p>Kon’s fingers drummed against the wooden table as the café buzzed with its usual Wednesday morning routine. The aroma of coffee and fresh-baked muffins wafted through the air. Two girls, whom he recognized from class, sat by the window, sharing what was probably the most sugar-filled frappuccino in existence. An employee was mopping up a spill. Beige-suited businessmen lined up for what seemed like the same bland order and aproned baristas churned out cup after cup like an assembly line. Kon shuddered. They reminded him of Lex Luthor. </p><p>He checked his phone, then his watch, then his phone. Red Robin’s words echoed through his mind.</p><p>
  <em> “If you knowingly treat others like that, well… I have nothing to say to you.” </em>
</p><p>No anger. No resentment. Red Robin was disappointed in him, and that was a hundred times worse.</p><p>But Kon could wallow later. Today wasn’t about him or Red Robin.</p><p>Fifteen minutes and two cherry scones later, he spotted the familiar long hair and dark hoodie among the crowd.</p><p>Kon grinned and waved Tim over. “Take a seat. Did you order anything?”</p><p>The other boy shook his head and remained standing, not meeting Kon’s eyes. “If you’re wondering about the song, it’s with someone who can help get it out there.”</p><p>“That’s great,” Kon said, “but that’s not why I called.”</p><p>Tim raised an eyebrow.</p><p>Kon stood up, the smile fading from his face. He fiddled with his watch. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I was an asshole.”</p><p>Tim mumbled something along the lines of, “yeah, you were” before looking up. He scowled. “Apology not accepted. You used me and ditched me and it hurt.”</p><p>Kon hung his head. “What I did was wrong. Like super awful Grade-A wrong. I wanna make it up to you. Are you free today?”</p><p>“Got work at five, but otherwise, yeah.”</p><p>“Awesome!” Kon said. “We can hang out; do whatever you want. My treat.”</p><p>Tight-lipped, Tim eyed him warily. The few seconds it took for him to answer felt like forever.</p><p>“Library.”</p><p>“What?” Kon asked.</p><p>“We’re going to the library,” Tim repeated, adjusting the strap of his laptop bag.</p><p>“Oh. Cool.” Kon rubbed the back of his neck. </p><p>“Since the school’s closed, we gotta go across town,” Tim said. “You got your library card on you?”</p><p>“Pssh, yeah, of course! I totally have a… what was it again?”</p><p> </p><p>The library, as it turned out, was not just a concrete monolith full of no-life nerds. As Kon browsed the shelves, children stopped to touch the silver studs on his jacket and he saw a cute college student in the LGBT section. Light streamed through wide feature windows. Computers lined every wall like teeth on a zipper, its users ranging from middle schoolers writing reports to old men playing online poker. Colorful chairs and beanbags laid about. Kon was tempted to sink into them and let their softness lull him to sleep.</p><p>Tim looked far more at ease from the moment they stepped inside, as though he lived there. He navigated the towering shelves the way street ruffians navigated back alleys. Kon was pretty sure Tim could do it blindfolded. He could see past the top of Tim’s head as the latter led him to an L-bend stacked to the ceiling with history books, documents, and audio recordings on old-fashioned cassette tapes.</p><p>Picking one up, Kon snorted. “Who even uses these things anymore?”</p><p>“You’d be surprised,” said Tim. “My brother swears by his Walkman. He refuses to buy an iPod.”</p><p>Kon set it back on a random shelf. “Well, they’re in the history section for a reason–”</p><p>He did a double-take and grabbed the tape again.</p><p>“Hey, Tim,” he said slowly. “What’s your opinion on queer people?”</p><p>“I’m jealous,” Tim answered. “I’m the only one of them with no fashion sense.”</p><p>“That’s good,” Kon said. “Er, not the fashion part. You could—ah, nevermind.” He handed Tim the cassette. “We could do the Stonewall Riots. That’s pretty modern, right? And important.”</p><p>Tim’s eyebrows flew up. “That’s not a bad idea.”</p><p>Kon bowed. “Why thank you. I pride myself on those.”</p><p>“Check the DVDs,” Tim said. “They might have some documentaries.”</p><p>Ten minutes later, they found themselves a comfy corner table, far from the squeaky carts and toddlers with no volume control. Cinderblock books were stacked from the carpet to the edge. A rainbow of discs arced around Tim’s sticker-plastered laptop. Kon had his headphones on, listening to an audiobook that Tim’s librarian friend recommended; the hard copies had too many paragraphs and not enough pictures. His phone buzzed; he pressed “ignore”. Meanwhile, Tim was nose-deep in three books and a video. </p><p>Kon propped his feet on the table. “So, Tim, what are you into?”</p><p>“Huh?” Tim blinked owlishly.</p><p>“What are you into?” Kon asked. “Like, hobbies and sh– stuff.”</p><p>“Oh, um, nothing too interesting.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Normal things. Entertainment. Music. Internet stuff.”</p><p>“Me too!” Kon beamed. “What’s your favorite band?”</p><p>“You–” Tim paused. “Uh… Journey.”</p><p>“Same! They’re, like, my inspiration.”</p><p>Tim’s eyes lit up. “I know, right? The way Steve Perry sings about love and relationships and the struggles of them in a way that’s still engaging and relevant after all this time? Genius, I tell you!”</p><p>“And the main riff of ‘Any Way You Want It’?” Kon mimed a chef’s kiss.</p><p>The librarian shushed them. Kon stifled a laugh. “What say we get outta here? We did all our stuff.”</p><p>Tim hesitated before reaching for his library card. “Sure, just let me check out.”</p><p> </p><p>The dry morning turned into a drizzle, randomly going on and off. It was on when Tim and Kon stepped out. Using Kon’s leather jacket as an umbrella, the boys sprinted across the street, kicking up water with every step. They ducked under the faded awning of an accessory store.</p><p>“That came outta nowhere,” Kon commented.</p><p>Tim lets out a single laugh. “No, it didn’t. We just forgot to check the forecast.”</p><p>A bell jingled when Kon opened the door. He motioned “after you” to the other boy.</p><p>“You’re such a gentleman,” Tim drawled.</p><p>“Again, something I pride myself on,” Kon replied with another joking bow.</p><p>The shop was less like the high-end brand names and more like a Goodwill of odds and ends. A tall rotating display held spectacles of all kinds, from star-shaped shutter glasses to round John Lennon–style frames from the Sixties. Baskets of wristbands lined the aisles, ready to be impulse-bought. Handmade bracelets, plastic mood rings, and dangly earrings sat by a bored employee at the front counter, so cheaply priced that there was no glass covering it. The air was thick with dust and lint. Woodstock-era tunes crackled over the speakers. As far as Kon could see, he and Tim were the only customers there.</p><p>Kon slipped a ring onto his finger. “Hey, Tim, what’s my mood according to this?”</p><p>“Uh…” Tim picked up a chart. “Blue means you’re relaxed, black means you’re stressed, and gray is uncertain, mixed, or ‘other’.”</p><p>“Huh?” </p><p>Kon examined the ring. Silver spikes pierced through a sky blue circle, like strips of rain clouds on an otherwise clear day. Encased in them was a pinhead-sized black hole. The icy eye stared at him, as though waiting for him to make or break something. Kon shook his head.</p><p>“These things are duds anyway,” he said, putting it back. “Might as well check out what else they got ‘till the rain lets up.”</p><p>From the clothing rack, Tim pulled out an obscenely orange t-shirt that read: <em> “Don’t mess with Tesax”</em>.</p><p>“How’s this for shifty thrifting?” he asked.</p><p>Kon barked out a laugh. “I bet I can find something worse.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Tim challenged. “And what does the winner get?”</p><p>“Hm… winner gives the loser a complete thrift store makeover. And the loser has to buy the winner’s shirt.”</p><p>Tim grinned. “You’re on, Kent!”</p><p>They took off in opposite directions. Kon snickered as he started filing through the men’s aisle.</p><p>“I hope you’re ready to ditch that dumb hoodie!” Kon taunted.</p><p>Tim replied, “You realize how wrong that sounds, don’t you?”</p><p>Kon bit his tongue and focused on the task. Most of the clothes were unremarkable—worn-out jeans, dated button-ups, washer-stretched shorts, and sweatshirts with the logos peeling off. They smelled like the musty donation bins they were dropped in.</p><p>Within a few minutes, he yanked a shirt off the wire hanger. “Found one!”</p><p>From across the store, Tim shouted, “Me too!”</p><p>They met in front of the register. Kon held his shirt behind his back. Tim did the same.</p><p>“On three?” Tim asked.</p><p>Kon nodded. “On three.”</p><p>“One…”</p><p>“Two…”</p><p>“Three!”</p><p>They broke down laughing. </p><p>Kon wiped a tear from his eye. “You win, dude. Yours <em> sucks </em>.”</p><p>Tim shook his head fervently. “Nah, yours is terrible. I can’t believe they make those!”</p><p>Turning to the lone employee, Kon said, “Excuse me, can we get your opinion on which is worse?”</p><p>The employee glanced between the two t-shirts. One was horrifically yellow and had <em> “I’m with stupid” </em> with an arrow pointing up; the other was dark purple with <em> “My pen is huge” </em> written underneath an ironed-on photo of a Bic pen. </p><p>“They’re both pretty bad.” She yawned. “It’s a tie for me.”</p><p>Tim raised an eyebrow. “So…”</p><p>“You heard her.” Kon shrugged. “Looks like we both lost. Where are the dressing rooms?”</p><p>The girl pointed towards the back.</p><p>“Awesome,” Kon said. “Come on, Tim, let’s see how we can fix…” He gestured to Tim’s whole body. “…that.”</p><p>Tim scoffed. “Get ready to kiss those shoulder sparkles goodbye.”</p><p>“They’re not sparkles, they’re spikes!”</p><p>They split once again. This time, Kon headed to the accessories first—headbands and belts and jewelry galore. </p><p>He grabbed handfuls at a time. “These are horrible. I love them.”</p><p>Several minutes and a cart’s worth of clothes later, they rendezvoused in front of a single cubicle-like stall with a toothpaste-green shower curtain. </p><p>“Who’s gonna go first?” Kon asked.</p><p>Tim touched his nose. “Not it!”</p><p>Kon set his selections for Tim aside and took the pile from Tim’s arms. Tim hopped onto one of the low shoe shelves like a kitchen counter, legs swinging, humming a tune under his breath as he peered at his phone. Kon stepped into the dressing room.</p><p>After pressing his thumbnail to the mirror, he shed his jacket and shirt and mumbled to himself, “Better not be denim on denim.” </p><p>He lifted a light blue jean jacket and matching pants. </p><p>“Damnit.”</p><p>Kon pulled on a generic white Beatles shirt, confused at first when it didn’t go past his belly button. He tugged it and checked the size. It was the right one. Other than the length, it fits perfectly.</p><p>Realization hit him when he heard Tim’s suppressed snicker. </p><p>
  <em> “That son of a–” </em>
</p><p>But they had a deal, and it’d be a jerk move to back out now.</p><p>Other than the breeze around his midriff, the result wasn’t that bad. Kon rolled the sleeves to his elbows and pant legs to his ankle, keeping the same combat boots he came in. The jacket smelled of mothballs and had an obscure motorcycle gang logo ironed on the back. Though, the flaming skull on the sleeve was overkill. A beaded wooden necklace, like a cross-less rosary, hung from his neck. Matching bracelets adorned his wrists. Kon adjusted the woven brown belt and put on the finishing touch: a pair of heart-shaped rose-tinted sunglasses.</p><p>He yanked the curtain aside and struck a dramatic pose. “How do I look?”</p><p>Tim bit his lip. He glanced briefly before going back to his phone.</p><p>“Better than usual,” he said.</p><p>Kon scoffed in mock offense. “What’s wrong with how I usually look?”</p><p>Tim looked up. “There’s nothing wrong, per se, but it’s like… how do I put this?” He paused, thinking. “I think you’re trying too hard to live up to the quote-unquote ‘ideal’ rockstar image. At least this doesn’t look like you’re wearing a billboard screaming ‘Joey Ramone wannabe’.”</p><p>“Huh.” Kon blinked. “Well, your turn. Time to ditch… whatever that is.”</p><p>They switched places, Tim entering the dressing room with an armful of garments and Kon hopping onto the counter. Tim’s feedback nagged at the back of his mind.</p><p><em> “I’m not a try-hard.” </em> He drummed his fingers. <em> “Am I?” </em></p><p>Kon just wanted to be like his idols. How he practiced was how he performed, right?</p><p>The golden rule of rock and roll was keeping it real. It was anti-authority, anti-establishment, anti-conformity—everything Kon fell in love with. His phone buzzed, but he didn’t feel like checking.</p><p>Tim was faster, probably because Kon didn’t throw in a surprise crop top. In sixty seconds, Tim emerged with a black-and-white striped V-neck and loosely tied tie under an unbuttoned gray waistcoat. The studded belt was almost invisible against the dark ripped jeans. Faded logo wristbands covered his arms. A thin black choker with a moon-shaped charm encircled his neck. Aviator sunglasses rested on his face.</p><p>“Is the choker really necessary?” Tim asked.</p><p>Kon lowered his glasses. “Yes.” He hopped off the shelf. “You look better than usual too.”</p><p>Tim scratched his head, looking into the mirror. “I mean, I guess? Just looks like the bare minimum effort.”</p><p>“Exactly, dude!” Kon said. “You don’t need to go full Met Gala, but a little extra goes a long way.”</p><p>A single <em>ping </em>sounded. Tim pulled out his phone. </p><p>“That’s just my brother checking in,” he said. </p><p>Kon pushed his glasses up. “You should send him a pic.”</p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“Yeah, why not?” Kon gestured to the phone. “Here, my arm’s longer.”</p><p>He motioned Tim closer, holding the phone out. The shorter boy threw up two peace signs with a stony face.</p><p>“Say ‘bees’!”</p><p>Tim broke down laughing. “Bees?!?”</p><p>Kon snapped the pic. “Done.”</p><p>The phone pinged again. Tim rolled his eyes and said, “He’s asking, <em> ‘Who are you and what have you done to my unphotogenic brother?’ </em>.”</p><p>“I think it turned out great,” Kon said. “And just in time too.” He gestured outside.</p><p>Their total came to less than thirty dollars and, even though they both lost the bet, Kon paid every last penny.</p><p> </p><p>“Where to next?” Tim asked.</p><p>Kon scanned around the main street, at the stores tightly pressed against each other like vacuum bags in a storage closet. The sky wasn’t clear by any definitions, but the cotton ball ceiling beat the ominous gray. Rainwater mingled with the wet concrete from a nearby construction site. There was a soft <em>pitter-patter </em>as a chipmunk scampered up a tree.</p><p>“It’s your day,” Kon answered.</p><p>Tim pointed to a music store. “How ‘bout that?”</p><p>“It’s like you’re reading my mind, dude!”</p><p>“Not like it’s difficult material,” Tim remarked.</p><p>“So you’re into music?” Kon asked, holding the door.</p><p>Tim shrugged. “Sorta. I’m more into, like, radio and stuff. I-it’s just a hobby though.”</p><p>As they made their way past brass tubas and grand pianos, Kon placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “You should pursue it. Who knows, maybe you’ll be the next Red Robin.”</p><p>Tim chuckled apprehensively. “Maybe.”</p><p>Kon pointed to a silver mixing console the size of a coffee table. “What about that? You know how to use it?”</p><p>Hesitating, Tim traced his fingers over the colorful buttons. “It’s more complicated than anything I’ve used. And a hundred times more expensive.” </p><p>He turned a large knob. A shrill squeal echoed through the aisle, raising heads. Tim scrambled to turn it off. They stifled a laugh.</p><p>“Like I said, it’s just a hobby,” Tim said.</p><p>He stepped towards a smaller console with only a few basic switches. He flipped a series of them, on and off like Morse code, and raised the volume. A classical tune drifted through the speaker.</p><p>Tim breathed. “Better.”</p><p>“Huh.” Kon clicked his tongue, impressed. Less really was more.</p><p>“I-it’s not much.” Tim scratched the back of his head.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” Kon insisted. “You’re great!”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yeah! That’s radio magic right here.”</p><p>Tim pointed to a wall of electric guitars. “What about you?”</p><p>Kon walked over and gazed up at the wall, examining each guitar carefully like an art critic. The strings made thin indents along his fingers. Perhaps it was just him, but even the polish on each one smelled different. He pulled a guitar pick out of his pocket and lifted a red Fender Telecaster off the skinny metal pegs holding it up and settled himself on top of a boxy speaker.</p><p>He plugged it in. “Any requests?”</p><p>“Hm…” Tim tapped his chin. “What’s that one Guns ‘N Roses song?”</p><p>Kon rolled his eyes and chuckled. “I think I know.”</p><p>Fingers on frets, pick in place. He took a deep breath. </p><p>The first few notes flowed from the six-string. Then a few more. Note by note, line by line, hopping from one moment to the next.</p><p>Under his breath, he sang, “Oh, sweet child o’ mine. Oh, oh oh oh sweet love of mine.”</p><p>Kon stopped and rested his palm on the bridge. “What do you think?”</p><p>Tim clapped. “That was awesome! Wish I could play like that.”</p><p>Kon scooted aside and patted the spot beside him. “I can show you.”</p><p>“Sure.” Tim’s long, thin fingers wrapped around the neck of the instrument. </p><p>Kon adjusted Tim’s fingers slightly. Tim pressed down.</p><p>“Now hold the pick like this and strum,” Kon instructed. </p><p>The pick grazed the strings, emitting a quiet, shaky sound.</p><p>“Try again,” Kon said. “Louder.”</p><p>“What if it sounds bad?”</p><p>“Then it’s just that. Plus, you never know unless you try.”</p><p>Tim bit his lip and strummed it again, louder, but still not stretching more than their immediate surroundings.</p><p>“Better,” Kon hummed. “Now put your fingers like this and play all but the last string.”</p><p>A <em> beep beep </em>cut them off.</p><p>“Sorry, sorry.” Tim got up, scrambling to gather his things and switch the alarm off. “I’m so sorry. I hate to bail, but I almost forgot I have to get to work, like, right now.”</p><p>“No worries. It’s cool,” Kon said. “I had fun.”</p><p>Tim stopped and smiled softly. “Me too.” He gave a two-finger salute. “I’ll text you later.”</p><p>Kon’s phone went off again. He waited for Tim to be out before opening it.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>5 new voicemails.</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>38 new messages.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>He played the first voicemail.</p><p>
  <em> “Kon, it’s Cassie. Bart and I are in front of your house. Can you let us in?” </em>
</p><p>Cursing, he played the rest.</p><p>
  <em> “Dude, it’s Bart. Where are you? You’re gonna miss practice.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s Cassie again. What is going on?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Are you dead or something? Why aren’t you picking up? Oh, it’s Bart, by the way.” </em>
</p><p>The last one began with a sad sigh. <em> “Cassie said not to bother, but I’m worried. It’s not like you to flake without telling us. Call me when you get this.” </em></p><p>The texts were more of the same—confusion diced with concern and sprinkled with frustration. Kon inhaled and ran his fingers through his hair. His friends meant well, which made it all the harder.</p><p>After several moments of deliberation, plus numerous attempts at crafting a decent reply, Kon decided he’d deal with it later.</p><p> </p><p>The last few minutes of the show before Red Robin’s played over Kon’s clock radio as Bart and Cassie’s messages stared back at him, waiting, daring him to worm his way out with a pathetic excuse. He rolled over, mattress creaking. His homework laid unfinished at the foot of his bed. The thrift store bag hung from his bedpost.</p><p>“Good evening, everyone. You’re listening to The Bat’s Cave, where we do daily deep dives into the mysteries of life. I’m your host, Red Robin.”</p><p>Kon bolted up and raised the volume.</p><p>“I wanna start a little differently today,” the host began.</p><p>Pulling the radio as close as he could without unplugging it, Kon pressed his ear to the device, as though he could unlock a secret message if he listened hard enough.</p><p>“I was given two copies of the same song by an up-and-coming artist,” said Red Robin. “One is the original recording, the other is an edit. One was given to me by the studio, the other from a friend.”</p><p>Kon sighed dreamily, tension evaporating from his body. Red Robin’s words were an ornate but sturdy boat, sailing on the calm waters of his voice.</p><p>“They’re both good,” Red Robin continued, “but the original seems more genuine. It’s got a beautiful sound with lyrics that you can tell come from the heart. Since I have the option, I’ll be playing that version. I hope you love it as much as I do.”</p><p>The first few chords echoed—a moderately paced ballad, guitar distorted ever so slightly as it faded out and made room for the next notes. Kon’s brows knitted together. It wasn’t until the first verse played did his eyes widen to the size of half-dollar coins. Kon reeled, losing his balance. A sharp pain shot through the back of his head as it collided first with the nightstand, then the not-as-soft-as-it-looks carpet. </p><p>“Kon? You okay?” a man asked from the other side of the door. The knob turned before Kon could answer. “I’m coming in.”</p><p>“I’m fine, Dad. Bu-but look!” Kon scrambled up and pointed frantically. “It’s on the radio!”</p><p>“What?” his father asked.</p><p>“My song!” Kon exclaimed. “It’s on the radio!”</p><p>The man’s jaw dropped. He shouted down the hall, “Honey! Get in here!”</p><p>A woman appeared, holding a wooden spoon. “What’s happening?”</p><p>“Mom, Mom, listen!” said Kon.</p><p>She paused as the chorus played. </p><p>“No way.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “My baby’s on the radio!”</p><p>“I know, I can’t believe it either.”</p><p>Kon’s father pulled them into a group hug. “I’m so proud.”</p><p>A child’s voice piped up. “What’s going on? Why’s everyone shouting?”</p><p>Standing in the doorway was a ten-year-old boy with a backpack slung over his shoulder and bike helmet under one arm. His hair was rumpled and his Target sweatshirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing a Scooby-Doo band-aid that wasn’t there in the morning.</p><p>“You’re just in time,” Kon said.</p><p>The boy tilted his head towards the radio. His expression morphed from confusion into beaming excitement. He dropped the bag and helmet and dashed forward, leaping into Kon’s arms. The older one grinned as he hoisted his little brother onto his waist.</p><p>“You’re famous!” the child exclaimed. “Which means I’m famous by association!”</p><p>Kon threw his head back and laughed. “That’s right, kiddo. We’re famous.”</p><p>He spun his brother around as he took in the feeling—refreshing, validating. Like all the finger calluses and broken strings and late nights poring over lyrics were finally paying off. His guitar overlayed Bart’s steady beat and Cassie’s keyboarding shined like campfire sparks shooting towards a starry sky. </p><p>Kon was still riding the high even after the song ended and his family dispersed. </p><p>
  <em> His song, all three-and-a-half homosexual minutes, was on Red Robin’s show. And Red Robin liked it. Red Robin liked the love song Kon wrote about him. </em>
</p><p>“That was by an awesome new band called Young Justice,” said the host. “They’re a local band featuring lead singer Kon Kent.”</p><p>Kon squealed. “He knows my name!”</p><p>Falling back onto the bed, he squeezed his pillow close.</p><p>“I guess this segues into today’s segment,” Red Robin said. “Straightwashing.”</p><p>A short <em>bzzt </em>grabbed Kon’s attention—a text from Tim. Kon opened it.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>Hey.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“For those of you who don’t know, straightwashing is when LGBT identities are erased or suppressed in mainstream media—movies, TV, music… you get the gist.”</p><p>Kon typed out a reply.</p><p>
  <b>sup</b>
</p><p>
  <b>done w work?</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>Nah, but I can multitask.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“The edited version of the song I just played replaces the male pronouns with female ones since it’s a romantic-sounding piece. I guess someone in the industry decided they’d be some sorta… I dunno, gatekeeper of love or something.”</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>What about you?</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>chillin</b>
</p><p>
  <b>listening 2 the radio</b>
</p><p>
  <b>wbu</b>
</p><p>“Though we are making strides towards greater representation, straightwashing is still a big industry issue. The notion is that LGBT representation won’t appeal to current audiences—that content starring queer people won’t sell.”</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>…I just said I’m working.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Kon mentally facepalmed. His fingers flew across the keyboard.</p><p>
  <b>i mean what do u do</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>Mainly tech stuff.</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>What are you listening to?</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“That’s insinuating that audience perceptions haven’t changed over the decades. The views of the executives are, frankly, outdated. People are more accepting than ever before.”</p><p>
  <b>a show called the bats cave</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>That Red Robin guy, right?</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>I’ve heard of him.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“Recently, I’ve been studying the Stonewall Riots and early gay rights movements for a class project. And it’s got me thinking: don’t we owe it to our predecessors to keep fighting for equality? Why should we stick to the status quo if it only serves to undo progress?”</p><p>
  <b>u listen to him?</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>Nah, too busy.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>u should</b>
</p><p>
  <b>i think u would like him</b>
</p><p>
  <b>he’s smart</b>
</p><p>
  <b>like u</b>
</p><p>Kon and Tim went back and forth as Red Robin’s voice flowed through the speaker. While Kon’s ears absorbed Red Robin’s words, his eyes remained trained on Tim Drake’s.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>You think so?</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>yeah</b>
</p><p>
  <b>lowkey got a crush on him</b>
</p><p>
  <b>lol its weird ik</b>
</p><p>Red Robin coughed and cleared his throat. “My managers don’t want me talking about this. Talk about irony, right? They gave me three strikes and I already used my first one on my old intro. I’m making the most out of this ‘cause I get fired if I do it again. But I believe it’s important to speak out. We've come too far to be pushed back into the closet.”</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>*It’s</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>Also, I’ve seen cursed Transformers fanart on Tumblr. </b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>You’re fine.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“I don’t wanna be a sellout who compromises who they are for a pretty penny,” said Red Robin. “If I can use my platform to make someone feel seen, then it’s worth taking a chance.”</p><p>Kon shifted uncomfortably.</p><p>“This next song goes out to all my not-straight ladies. I was told it’s a lesbian staple. Here is ‘Girls Like Girls’ by Hayley Kiyoko.”</p><p>
  <b>can i ask u smth</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>Sure.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b>i need advice</b>
</p><p>
  <b>my band got offered a record deal </b>
</p><p>
  <b>but they want us 2 change our lyrics</b>
</p><p>
  <b>they dont like that i write abt liking dudes</b>
</p><p>
  <b>my friends wanna do the changes and take the deal</b>
</p><p>
  <b>but idk </b>
</p><p>
  <b>it feels wrong</b>
</p><p>
  <b>what should i do</b>
</p><p>He rolled onto his stomach as three dots appeared.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <b>The best thing I can tell you is to trust your gut.</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>But if you ask me, I think it’s messed up that they’re straightwashing your music. You worked hard on it, plus the queer community’s come too far to be pushed back into the closet.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Kon chewed on his bottom lip. It was clear what he had to do.</p><p>He took a deep breath and sent a message to Bart and Cassie.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Tim</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “I like Kon. Kon likes Red Robin. I can’t tell him that I like him ‘cause then it seems like I’m making a move on a guy who doesn’t like me. Except he does like me.” </em>
</p><p>Tim rubbed his temples as he crossed the empty street. </p><p>
  <em> “I wish he didn’t like Red Robin.” </em>
</p><p>Rafts of dead leaves floated along the curbside river, damming up the storm drains.</p><p>
  <em> “Does that make me a bad guy?” </em>
</p><p>He zipped up his jacket as a bitter breeze blew. </p><p>Tim shook his head. <em> “Wait, why do I want him to pick me over me?” </em></p><p>He half-expected the salt-and-pepper sky to drizzle again. The houses in the neighborhood were all identical—same sloped shingles, same sturdy sycamores. Beige sidewalks melted into driveways and Tim had to be careful not to trespass as he looked for the right house number. </p><p><em> “I could tell him.” </em> He fiddled with the handle of his umbrella. <em> “But that puts my job at risk.” </em></p><p>Tim didn’t even notice himself stepping onto a porch and ringing the doorbell until his finger had already pressed the button.</p><p><em> “Crap crap crap. What if it’s the wrong place? What was the number?” </em> Tim fumbled through his coat. <em> “Stupid jacket with a hundred pockets. Where’s that text–” </em></p><p>The door swung open.</p><p>“WHAT’S UP, KON?”</p><p>Kon flinched. Tim clamped his hand over his mouth, but the damage was done—his voice echoed through the cul-de-sac and a woman walking a dog stopped to stare.</p><p>Tim lowered his voice. “Sorry.”</p><p>Chuckling, Kon invited him in. “Don’t worry. This place is too quiet anyway.”</p><p>He followed the older boy into a nice but unremarkable home. The most interesting thing was a white dog cuddling its food bowl as it napped in the corner. </p><p>“You can put your stuff upstairs since that’s where we’ll be working,” Kon said. </p><p>Tim set his backpack by Kon’s bed. The first thing he had to do was allow his eyes to adjust for a few seconds. The curtains were drawn and any natural light was absorbed by the posters pasted on all four walls. He recognized a few bands, but most were artists that only a passionate music lover would know. The desk lamp shined like a white dwarf. On the ceiling, the shadow of the fan circled the incandescent light like crows.</p><p>“Nice place,” Tim commented. “My butler won’t let me have posters. He doesn’t wanna damage the walls.”</p><p>Kon playfully rolled his eyes. “Way to flex on the rest of us.”</p><p>He cleared the area rug, kicking clothes under the bed and setting his guitar aside, before motioning for Tim to sit beside him. </p><p>Tim pulled out his laptop. “Ms. Prince said that we should have our outline done by Monday. The rubric says we should pick a presentation format by then too.”</p><p>Kon blinked. “The what now?”</p><p>“The rubric,” Tim repeated, pulling out a piece of paper. “Everyone got one.”</p><p>“Uh…”</p><p>Tim sighed. “Listen, Kon, you’re cool and all, but I’m gonna tell you right now I’m not doing all the work.”</p><p>“No no, I get that!” Kon replied. “I’ll do my part. It’s just that I don’t do good with reading or writing. Unless it’s song lyrics, but, like, I don’t count those.”</p><p>A metaphorical lightbulb appeared above Tim’s head. He snapped his fingers. “I got it! We can do a documentary. I can do the research and writing; you can find photos, narrate, and maybe overlay some music. And we can edit it together. What do you think?”</p><p>Kon beamed and threw an arm around Tim, startling him. </p><p>“You’re a genius, dude!” Kon exclaimed.</p><p>Tim laughed. “We’ll totally get an A!”</p><p>“Heck yeah! First for everything, right?”</p><p>Tim got out his hulking hardcovers, Kon hit play on his audiobook, and they got down to business… with the occasional cat video break.</p><p>An hour later, Tim’s eyes were stinging as if the words tattooed themselves into his retina. He rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. Kon had dozed off ten minutes prior, headphones still on, leaning slightly on Tim’s shoulder.</p><p>
  <em> Knock knock knock. </em>
</p><p>Kon jolted awake. “Whaaat?”</p><p>A man with dark hair and glasses opened the door. “I’m going to the store. What kind of ice cream do you want?”</p><p>Kon nudged Tim. “What do you want?”</p><p>“Um, pistachio?” Tim answered.</p><p>“Whatever Jon hates,” Kon said.</p><p>“Two pistachios. Got it.” The man paused and tilted his head at Tim. “Wait a second. You’re not my kid.”</p><p>He chuckled nervously. “No. I’m just here to work on a project. I’m Tim.”</p><p>The man smiled and stepped forward, offering a handshake. “Clark Kent. You might recognize me from the Daily Planet. I’m Kon’s father.”</p><p>Tim awkwardly smiled and took the handshake, not having the heart to tell him that nobody read newspapers anymore. “Nice to meet you, sir.”</p><p>“Well, I’m gonna go before the store closes,” Clark said. “Tim, you’re welcome to stay for dinner.”</p><p>Tim looked at Kon, who simply shrugged.</p><p>“Thanks, Mr. Kent,” Tim said. “I’ll consider it.”</p><p> </p><p>While Kon was busy setting the dinner table, Tim shot Alfred a quick text before washing up in the bathroom. As he ran his hands under the cold water, Tim’s mind drifted back to Kon. More specifically to a few minutes ago, before Clark entered. How the subtle wrinkles on Kon’s forehead disappeared as he drifted off. The way his hair smelled like peppermint. </p><p>
  <em> “Snap out of it. He likes someone.” </em>
</p><p>Tim reached for the soap bar.</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah. You.” </em>
</p><p>He splashed soapy water onto his face and instantly regretted it. Eyes forced shut, Tim clumsily felt around for a towel. The soap dish and some other bottle clattered into the porcelain sink, splashing his clothes and the waxy tile. </p><p>“Tim? You good?” Kon asked, knocking gently.</p><p>Tim yanked the towel off the rack and wiped his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He blinked, hoping they weren’t too pink. “I’ll be down in a sec.” </p><p>Downstairs, he was met with a table laden with aromatic pasta, fresh chopped salad, and meatballs still sizzling in their tray. While Kon was setting the last of the silverware, a little boy sat at the end chair, legs swinging as he hummed a happy tune under his breath. He had dark hair like Kon, but instead of an undercut, the boy sported a tousled look that suited his age and demeanor. The boy also had the same bright blue eyes, twinkling with innocence. Tim took the seat beside him.</p><p>The boy perked up. “Hiya!”</p><p>“Um, hey?”</p><p>“You’re Dami’s brother, right?” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Jon. Damian’s best friend.”</p><p>Tim took the second awkward handshake of the evening, one eyebrow raised. Since when did Damian have friends?</p><p>“I’m Tim. Um, he invited me.” He cocked his head towards Kon, who was busy filling a water pitcher.</p><p>When Jon spoke, it was an excited chatter. “Ooh, it’s been for-e-ver since Kon had someone over. I remember last time it was ‘round junior prom. The guy smelled like ketchup and had weird hair. And I’m, like, fifty percent sure he stole my fidget spinner. Ask Damian—he was there. On the bright side, you don’t smell like ketchup. Anyway, how’d you guys meet? You and Kon, I mean. Not you and your brother.”</p><p>Kon cut in, setting the pitcher between them. “Easy there, Jonno.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “He’s here for a project.”</p><p>Jon leaned forward, propping his arms on the table. “What’s it about?”</p><p>“Heard of the Stonewall Riots?” Kon asked.</p><p>“Nope!” But Jon didn’t stop smiling or swinging his legs.</p><p>Tim chuckled; for a moment, he considered asking Kon to trade siblings. </p><p>“Basically,” Kon said, “it’s the reason why I can have a boyfriend.”</p><p>Jon tilted his head. “And people couldn’t before?”</p><p>“It’s a complicated thing. Also, elbows off the table before Mom sees.”</p><p>Clark returned as Kon’s mother brought out a hot apple pie. Jon sprinted to the door and peered into the shopping bag.</p><p>He wrinkled his nose. “Who asked for pistachio?”</p><p>“Ice cream later,” their mother reminded them.</p><p>Tim’s shoulders relaxed as the family gathered around and they tucked in. The conversation consisted of “How was work?” and the like. The lack of flying forks startled him more than anything. And there was no verbal outburst when Kon beat his brother to the marinara sauce. It wasn’t the family dinners he knew, but Tim welcomed it.</p><p>Kon’s mother twirled her spaghetti. “So, how long have you two known each other?”</p><p>“About a week,” Kon answered.</p><p>“Yeah, we met in class,” Tim added.</p><p>“I thought we were gonna wait ‘till dessert,” Clark joked.</p><p>“You know I prefer efficiency,” the woman said. “Tim, was it?”</p><p>Tim nodded, a single noodle dangling from his mouth.</p><p>“What kind of things do you enjoy?” she asked.</p><p>He slurped the noodle and wiped his mouth. “Entertainment. Like, radio and stuff.”</p><p>“Thinking of making a career out of that?” Clark asked, grabbing another meatball.</p><p>Tim almost said he already did, but he caught himself, biting his tongue. “Maybe,” he answered. “Depending on school and college. Education first, you know?”</p><p>“Atta boy!” Clark commended. “Kon’s lucky to have you.”</p><p>“Yeah!” Jon chimed in, face covered in sauce; Lois handed him a napkin. “Plus, that means I get to hang out with Damian more!”</p><p>The doorbell rang. Kon got up. “I’ll get that.”</p><p>Once Kon left, his mother asked Tim, “How’s Kon been treating you so far? Hopefully how we raised him.”</p><p>“It was rocky at first, but everything’s fine now,” Tim replied candidly, finishing the last bites on his plate before putting his fork down. “Is there a bathroom on this floor?”</p><p>Clark pointed. “Down the hall, by the garage.”</p><p>“Thank you,” said Tim. “And dinner was wonderful, Mrs. Kent.”</p><p>“Please, just call me Lois.”</p><p>As Tim made his way down the hall, a voice caught his attention. He tracked it to a half-open garage door. Tiptoeing, Tim peered around the doorframe. Standing in almost a triangle were Kon and his bandmates. The latter two stood to one side while Kon was alone in the third corner.</p><p>“Seriously, dude? You’re bailing on us again? That’s the second time this week!” Bart complained.</p><p>“Look, I’m sorry,” Kon replied. “Some things came up and I totally forgot you guys were coming over. I got that history project and–”</p><p>“Save it.” A blonde girl—Cassie, if Tim remembered correctly—cut Kon off. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re not taking this seriously.”</p><p>“Are you kidding? Of course, I’m serious. I formed the band!”</p><p>“Really?” Cassie countered. “Then why do you keep leaving us hanging? You’re supposed to be our leader.” She poked him in the chest. “I’m starting to doubt you, Kon. We were supposed to have answered that record deal by now.”</p><p>“And we will,” Kon insisted. “I’m trying to figure out how we can do it on our terms.”</p><p>“Again with your terms!” Cassie fired. “We have a golden opportunity and all you’re doing is wasting it.”</p><p>Kon looked to Bart.</p><p>Bart crossed his arms and bit his lip. “She’s right, you know. We’re trying to jumpstart our career. What’s a few small compromises in the long run?”</p><p>“It’s not a ‘small compromise’!” Kon exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “By changing our songs, we’re changing a part of ourselves. Why can’t you guys see that?”</p><p>Cassie’s phone pinged. “Our ride’s waiting. Come on, Bart.”</p><p>Bart sighed and gave Kon a disappointed glance, though their eyes didn’t meet.</p><p>“Guys,” Kon pleaded, desperation lacing his words. “Please, listen to me! I’m doing what’s best for <em> us </em>.”</p><p>“Sure,” Cassie scoffed.</p><p>Tim ducked into the bathroom as Kon turned around. He quickly locked the door and flushed the toilet. Kon’s heavy footsteps were just as loud, if not louder, than the rattling pipes. Steadying his breathing, Tim came out, praying that Kon didn’t spot him eavesdropping.</p><p>“Hey…” Tim said. “What’s up?”</p><p>“Huh?” Kon asked.</p><p>“I-It’s just… you look kinda…” Tim scratched the back of his head. “Is everything okay?”</p><p>Kon bristled. “Yeah. I’m fine.”</p><p>Tim followed him upstairs, barely able to keep up with the other boy’s fast stomping. He placed a hand on Kon’s shoulder. “You sure? If you wanna talk about it–”</p><p>“I’m fine!” Kon snapped.</p><p>Tim flinched and removed his hand.</p><p>Kon sighed, the flames in his eyes dying down. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… can we get back to work?”</p><p>“Of course.” Tim coughed. “Back to work.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Kon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><b>RedRobin</b> If you guys liked that song, be sure to check out the links below and follow Young Justice.</p>
  <p>
    <em> 10,249 likes </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><b>Stephspoilers</b> They’re officially my new favorite band!</p>
  <p><b>GuyGardner</b> We should be focusing on more important issues</p>
  <p><b>fastest-kid-alive</b> <em>@GuyGardner</em> shut up &amp; let ppl enjoy stuff</p>
  <p><b>Traci13</b> That song is so catchy but also so heartfelt &lt;3</p>
  <p><b>clownprince</b> So we’re just gonna make every gay guy famous huh?</p>
  <p><b>Dr_Quinzel</b> <em>@clownprince</em> Your username tells us everything we need to know</p>
</blockquote><p>Kon tore his eyes off the old social media post and turned the radio on. He offhandedly wondered what Tim was up to. Hopefully not being swallowed by anxiety and hiding from his problems in his room.</p><p>“A few weeks ago, I played for you a song from a band that, honestly, I’ve grown to love,” said Red Robin. “I’m not gonna speak on it too much because, again, I might get fired. Let’s just say that the support has been overwhelming and I can’t thank you all enough.”</p><p>Oh, right. Tim's at work.</p><p>Kon raised the volume.</p><p>“If you’re an older listener, then you know that once a month I do a segment called ‘Ask Red Robin’. It’s where you guys call in with anything you might be dealing with and I do my best to answer your questions.”</p><p>Kon dialed the number and held the phone to his ear.</p><p>“Without further ado,” Red Robin said, “Talk to me, caller number one.”</p><p>The line continued to ring. Cursing, Kon flopped onto his pillow as a young girl spoke quickly and excitedly. </p><p>“Ohmygosh, hi!”</p><p>“Hey!” Red Robin greeted. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“It’s Carrie!” she answered. “Anyway, so, like, I need some advice on my parents. They won’t let me have a sleepover and…”</p><p>As those two went back and forth, Kon’s mind drifted back to what Tim might be doing at the moment. Tim mentioned working with technology. Kon imagined Tim as part of the Geek Squad at Best Buy, showing old people how to open a browser. Envisioning it made Kon chuckle.</p><p>The radio cut through his thoughts. “Caller number two, you’re up. What’s your name?”</p><p>This time, an older woman was on the other end. “My name’s Kate and my question for you is how do you let someone know that you want to be more than friends?”</p><p>“You…” Red Robin paused. “You tell them. There’s no better way than to be direct. I know it sounds scary, but you’ll thank yourself for not wasting time beating around the bush. The only way to know is to take a chance.”</p><p>“Please let me be next,” Kon pleaded.</p><p>“Number three, what’ve you got for me?”</p><p>Kon groaned when it wasn’t him again.</p><p>“‘Sup. I’m Jason…”</p><p>Red Robin exhaled but allowed the caller to continue. The latter sounded like they were trying to suppress a laugh as some other people giggled in the background.</p><p>“…and I got this weird thing going on with my foot. It’s this mucus-y greenish-yellow thing that was growing under my big toenail and it’s starting to leak puss and now–”</p><p>“Go see a doctor.” Red Robin slapped a button so hard that it echoed through the speaker. “Next.”</p><p>The line clicked. Kon jolted up. “Hey!”</p><p>“Superboy! My biggest fan. Long time no see,” said Red Robin. “How’ve you been?”</p><p>Kon smiled. “I’ve been good, you know? Keeping up with the music and all that.”</p><p>“It’s good that you are,” Red Robin said. “I know you love it a lot. So, what’ve you got for me today?”</p><p>“It’s about the music, actually.”</p><p>“Oh?” Kon could practically hear Red Robin raise an eyebrow.</p><p>“Yeah,” he said. “My band and I were offered a record deal.”</p><p>“Dude, that’s awesome! Congrats!”</p><p>Kon hesitated. “It is, but they want us to change who we are—the songs, the lyrics. I’ve kinda been putting them on hold for a while ‘cause I’m not sure what to do. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime but… I don’t wanna start a career pretending. You get what I’m saying?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” said Red Robin. “I started this show because I was sick of those DJs who, no offense to them, are over-the-top.”</p><p>“What should I do?” Kon asked, adjusting his pillow.</p><p>Red Robin clicked his tongue. “It’s messed up that they’re asking you to change who you are. If they appreciated your talent, you wouldn’t have to face these hurdles. My advice would be to follow your gut. I don’t know the details of this situation, but you seem like a smart guy with sound judgment.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Kon said. “But what about you?”</p><p>“What <em> about </em> me?” Red Robin asked, confused. </p><p>“You’re out here giving awesome advice, but you’re human too. Don’t you have questions that you want answered?”</p><p>Static hung in the hair when Red Robin paused. Kon knew for a fact that nobody ever asked the host what he wanted—he was there from the very first show. </p><p>“I… might have <em>one</em>,” Red Robin said. </p><p>“Cool!” Kon replied, flipping onto his stomach. “Let’s switch places. You tell me what’s up and I’ll give you the best I got.”</p><p>Red Robin laughed. “Okay, okay. This is gonna be a weird one.” A chair squeaked in the background. “So… I like this person, and we’re good friends in real life. The issue is…” He chuckled. “The issue is they have a crush on Red Robin. And obviously they don’t know it’s me, and I can’t tell them.”</p><p>Kon suppressed a chortle. “I’m trying not to laugh, but that’s, like, a fanfiction-level issue.”</p><p>Red Robin replied, “Yeah, I know. So anyway, I’m trying to figure out whether I should tell them, and if so, <em> how </em>to go about it. You get what I’m saying?”</p><p>“I hear you. I think if you really trust them and like them, you should be honest,” Kon answered, expression softening. “If they don’t like you back, then that says more about them than it does about you.”</p><p>“You think so?”</p><p>“Hey, anyone would be lucky to have you. Er, I mean, like, objectively. ‘Cause you’re a cool dude.”</p><p>“So are you,” Red Robin said. “I should probably pick up another caller, but it was great talking to you, as usual. Catch you around!” The line clicked as he hung up and picked another caller. “Caller <em>numero cinco</em>, what’s up?”</p><p>“Nothing much,” said a girl around Kon’s age. “I don’t really have a problem, I’m just wondering if you and Superboy are, like, partners or something.”</p><p>“Partners?” the host asked incredulously. “Like in what way?”</p><p>“I dunno,” the girl said. “He’s on every show with you. It seems natural.”</p><p>Red Robin laughed. “No, we’re not partners. I don’t even know the guy.”</p><p>The show faded into white noise, giving way for Kon’s tossed-up salad bowl of thoughts. For the third time that night, Tim reappeared like a song on repeat—his crystal blue eyes, his unruly hair. And that <em>smile</em>. It was awkward and a bit unconfident but goddamn did it catch like a wildfire. A sizable piece of Kon wished he could turn back the clock and truly appreciate it the first time like he should have.</p><p>He hoped he could catch it tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>Kon wondered why he bothered with school lunches. Twelve years and he would’ve learned to pass on the limp fries and bouncing purple chicken nuggets. He pushed the tray away and glanced across the courtyard, where Bart and Cassie were chatting with some other kids at their table. Resentment stirred in his chest, but Kon had no one to blame except himself. They were his best friends and he let them down.</p><p>His attention snapped back when someone took a seat across from him.</p><p>“Hey,” Tim said hesitantly. “Is this seat taken?”</p><p>Kon moved the tray aside. “Not at all. Since when did you have this lunch period?”</p><p>“Since always,” the other boy replied, drawing a Star Wars lunch box from his overstuffed backpack. “Normally I hang out in the computer lab, but they’re doing make-up tests in there.”</p><p>Tim brushed a strand of hair out of his face and glanced towards the other table. “I take it things are still…”</p><p>Kon let out a single bitter chuckle. “It’s complicated. We’re not on speaking terms.”</p><p>“That must suck,” Tim said, drawing half a sandwich from a Ziploc and offering it to Kon.</p><p>“You sure? That’s your lunch.”</p><p>Tim rolled his eyes and smiled. “Alfred packed, like, three. Says I need to eat more. No way I’m finishing it all.”</p><p>Smiling, Kon accepted the sandwich. “Why the computer lab?”</p><p>“I jailbroke one of the laptops and downloaded a bunch of games,” Tim answered, taking a bite. “Lunch is the only time I get to play them.”</p><p>“The only video game I’ve played is Guitar Hero,” Kon said.</p><p>“Why am I not surprised?”</p><p>A gentle breeze blew, whistling like a low note on a flute. The other kids faded from thought and it was just the two of them. From a low-hanging branch, an orange maple leaf drifted toward the ground like a campfire spark. Its descent was halted when the thin stem snagged onto Tim’s bangs. Kon couldn’t help but be reminded of a magic carpet sailing through the night sky. Tim didn’t notice—he continued talking about Halo or something like that, eyes twinkling like ice crystals on a clear morning.</p><p>“What are you looking at?” he asked, head tilted.</p><p>Leaning forward, Kon plucked the leaf out of his hair. </p><p>Tim froze. “Oh, uhm, thanks.” </p><p>The tips of his ears turned the faintest pink—though that could just be the cold, Kon reasoned. Still, it didn’t stop his chest from fluttering in time with Tim’s eyelashes. </p><p>“So, uh, you going to homecoming?” Tim asked.</p><p>“Huh. Forgot about that.” Kon scratched the back of his neck. “I dunno.” He spared a glance at Bart and Cassie. “I don’t wanna… you know.”</p><p>“Would it make you feel better if you weren’t alone?”</p><p>All of a sudden, Kon was aware of where Tim’s hands were—and where his <em>own </em>was. Less than an inch apart, the temptation to close that gap was unbearably real. He met Tim’s gaze. Was his heartbeat supposed to be that loud? </p><p>“Y-yeah.” He gulped. “That’d be nice.”</p><p> </p><p>The lights were too dim. The gym was too crowded. The air was infused with cheap perfume and sweat. A disco ball hung from the ceiling like a lethargic spider, spinning like a lazy planet. Sitting at the very top of the bleachers, there wasn’t much to do other than sip his watery punch and try to make out what Tim’s trying to say through the hammering bass drops. Something about the history of dubstep? Kon wasn’t sure, but he wanted to know more.</p><p>He scooted closer. Their knees bumped. He couldn’t stop thinking about how, even though they wore the exact same sport coats and black ties, Tim pulled it off <em>so much </em>better. Maybe it was the Wayne genes. But Kon couldn’t recall a photo of Bruce Wayne looking nearly as good. </p><p>“You’re doing that thing again,” Tim said.</p><p>Kon cocked his head. “What thing?”</p><p>“That thing where you look at me all weird. Do I have something in my hair again?”</p><p>As a joke, Kon leaned forward and flicked an imaginary piece of lint from Tim’s bangs, smiling. “Got it.”</p><p>Tim finished his drink. “Where’s the trash can?”</p><p>Standing up, Kon said, “Don’t worry, I got it.” </p><p>Their fingertips brushed as Tim handed him the empty cup. Kon thanked God it was dark enough to mask the heat spreading across his cheeks. Needing a distraction, Kon checked his phone as he made his way to the bins at the edge of the dance floor.</p><p>In the middle of the basketball court, Cassie and her date were showing off their dance moves to a gaggle of awestruck freshmen. The DJ—some green-haired college student—stood onstage with a setup that seemed like overkill for a high school dance. Next to him were a few kids waiting with requests. Should Kon request something? Neither of them have gotten on the floor yet, and as nice as their conversations were, it seemed like a waste to come all the way here and not dance. What would Tim like? Classic rock, for sure. But which song?</p><p>
  <em> Thunk. </em>
</p><p>One of Kon’s hands was suddenly empty and it wasn’t the one holding the garbage. He cursed and dropped the cups in before reaching in. Shoulder-deep in the trash can, his fingers found the familiar cracked screen and wrapped around the smartphone.</p><p>“Gotcha!”</p><p>Kon moved to tug his arm out. It didn’t budge.</p><p>“Uh oh.”</p><p>He tried maneuvering again, twisting his shoulder, sleeve picking up a gob of chewed up stuck to the side. Still no luck. </p><p>“Talk about being stuck in a hard place.”</p><p>Looking up, Kon met Tim’s eyes.</p><p>“I dropped my phone,” he moaned.</p><p>Chuckling, Tim lifted the plastic lid. “Only you.”</p><p>Kon wrung his wrist, grimacing at the gum. “I’ll go wash off.”</p><p>He slipped out of the gym and into the bathroom across the hall, which was surprisingly empty. </p><p>
  <em> Fwoosh. </em>
</p><p>Cold water wetted his sleeve as he gingerly picked at the stringy, daffodil-yellow bits, muttering obscenities under his breath. </p><p>A toilet flushed right as he flicked the largest clump down the drain. Kon froze when the person who exited the stall was none other than Bart Allen.</p><p>Their eyes met. Neither boy said anything as Bart washed his hands almost deliberately slowly. Unspoken sentiments hung in the air like the late summer humidity, clinging onto every fiber, refusing to be ignored.</p><p>Kon cleared his throat. “Bart.”</p><p>Bart nodded. “Kon.”</p><p>“How’ve you been?”</p><p>Sighing, Bart answered earnestly, “Can we skip the small talk?”</p><p>“Alright, alright.” He scraped the last of the gum with his nail and pumped as much soap as he could fit into one palm. “Are you mad at me?”</p><p>Bart scoffed. “What do you think? You left us hanging, man! That was <em> so </em> not cool.”</p><p>“I know. And I’m sorry. I really am,” Kon said. “I want to talk. Like, <em> talk </em>talk, not argue. I wanna make the next career jump as much as you do, but not at the expense of who we are.”</p><p>“I’ll have to check with Cassie.” Bart hesitated. “She’s more mad than I am. You know how hard she’s worked. This has been our dream since we were kids.”</p><p>“And it’ll happen, I swear,” Kon replied. “But we won’t go anywhere if we can’t get past,” he gestured between them, “<em>this</em>.”</p><p>As he grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped his phone, he searched Bart’s face for <em>something</em>. Resentment, agreement, whatever laid in between. But the drummer’s expression remained neutral as he fiddled with his cuffs.</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Kon blinked. “Sure what?”</p><p>Bart chuckled softly. “We both know I suck at holding grudges. And you have a point. The whole ‘changing the lyrics’ thing doesn’t sit right with me either.” He pursed his lips. “I’ll talk to Cassie—see what we can do.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Kon smiled and offered a fist bump. “We crash?”</p><p>Bart returned the gesture. “Crash.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Tim</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song referenced in this chapter is Faithfully by Journey.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I’ll go wash off,” said Kon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not long after he left, a blonde girl in a purple dress approached Tim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” She smiled. “Wanna dance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” he replied. “You don’t have a date either?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she led him onto the dance floor, she said, “I do, but she said she won’t mind. She’d much rather stick to the snack bar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tilted her head across the gym, where three girls—a blue-haired one in a tux, an Asian one in a black gown, and another blonde with shorter hair and an azure-and-ruby skirt—gathered around the towering tier of cupcakes, ferociously devouring it like lionesses with an antelope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim chuckled, accepting her outstretched hand. “Hey, I’d do the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they moved to a mellow pop song—Tim trying his best not to step on her foot—the girl mentioned offhandedly, “You sound familiar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” he asked. “Like Channing Tatum?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She giggled. “Not quite. You sound like the DJ on the evening show.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Tim raised an eyebrow. “So, like, locally famous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He twirled her under his arm, the hem of her dress grazing his calves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess you can say that,” she said. “He’s definitely an inspiration to a lot—including me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So sounding like him is a compliment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulled him out of the way of another pair moving past. “The highest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed. “I’ll take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl tilted her head. “What about your date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim blinked, confused. “My what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The guy you came with,” she answered as though it was obvious. “By the way, did you know he’s in a band?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you mean Kon. He’s not my date. We’re just friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hummed apologetically. “My bad. You guys looked like– never mind.” The girl shook her head. “So, enjoying your night so far?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two danced and made enough small talk to last them two and a half songs. Tim glanced around the gym. Still no sign of Kon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They parted ways. The girl returned to her group and Tim made his way to the opposite side, pouring himself another drink. The plastic ladle swam in the artificially-flavored sea of melting ice cubes and raspberry chunks. Not wanting to think too much about what he was drinking, Tim downed the entire cup in one swig.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slow, gentle piano chords drifted through the air. Two by two, people paired off, pulling their significant others close. Singles drifted towards the edge, but they were few and far between. The lights shifted to a subtle shade of magenta. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the crowd, Tim spotted Kon entering the doors on the other side. As the blonde passed, hand-in-hand with her girlfriend, she gave Tim a knowing look, as though she was a fortune teller, and cocked her head in that direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stepped over the sideline. The swirling sea of dancers parted, as though he was the star of a love story and this was the defining moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They gravitated towards each other. Tim wasn’t sure what he was doing; all he knew was that this—whatever it was—felt as natural as the beating in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim began, “May I–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the same time, Kon said, “Do you wanna–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, you go first–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They giggled. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a couple of tries, but when they finally got it, their bodies slotted together perfectly. Kon’s hands rested ever so lightly on Tim’s waist; Tim’s arms were draped past the nape of Kon’s neck. Their feet moved automatically.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>“Circus life, under the big top world. We all need the clowns to make us smile.”</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is my favorite Journey song,” Tim murmured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t sure whether he stepped closer or if Kon pulled him in first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kon smiled. “I think it might be mine, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>“Through space and time, always another show. Wondering where I am, lost without you.”</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>He never understood what it meant for worries to melt away. To Tim, life’s burdens were something he always had to carry—something that followed him every step of the way. First, it was homework and kids at school. Then it was the radio station and a growing listener base. No wonder the thing he got told the most was to loosen up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But beneath the rosy lights, it was as if those problems were reduced to wisps, dissipating into thin air like smoke on an overcast day. Tim watched it wash away gracefully, like the rain carrying away detritus. It was just him and Kon and the music.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>“And being apart ain't easy on this love affair. Two strangers learn to fall in love again.”</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>As they swayed to the rhythm, it struck Tim just how blue Kon’s irises were. The atmosphere did not affect the way they twinkled. They were just there, regardless of what the world thought, like the sapphire twilight. Tim swore he could lose himself swimming in that sky. Their noses brushed as their foreheads pressed together, warm breaths mingling as Kon softly hummed the tune—a concert, lullaby, and serenade all at once. Eyes sliding shut, Tim granted himself the liberty of drinking it in.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>“I get the joy of rediscovering you.”</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>The sweet smell of cologne drowned everything out in the best possible way. The version of him that would’ve passed out by now felt foreign—a chrysalis shedded an eternity ago. That Tim Drake fantasized over a pin-up. That Tim Drake barely had the guts to show his face in public. That iteration stood zero chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Tim changed. Maybe Kon changed. Or perhaps it was just a matter of perspective. Gazing through a different looking glass, things weren’t always what they’re supposed to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>“Oh, you stand by me. I'm forever yours, faithfully.”</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>The song faded out, but they remained in each other’s arms, not in any rush to part. Tim’s eyes fluttered open, his breath fully taken away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kon tilted his head towards the door. “What say we get outta here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling, Tim laced his fingers with Kon’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of sight and out of mind went the homecoming revelry as they stepped into the crisp night. Leaves blanketed the courtyard, crunching satisfyingly with every step. Kon wedged a doorstop under the exit. Tim brushed the leaves off a picnic table and patted the spot beside him, relishing the warmth when Kon joined. One side of Kon’s collar was flipped the wrong way, so Tim leaned forward and adjusted it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under the pale moonlight, Kon blushed lavender. “Was it like that the whole time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim giggled. “Don’t worry, it didn’t change anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kon squeezed Tim’s hand. Taking a calming breath, Tim rested his head on Kon’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So…” Kon traced his thumb over Tim’s knuckles. “What now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim shrugged. “I dunno. You were the one who suggested we get outta there. I thought you were gonna take the lead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, uh, I didn’t think that far ahead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A comfortable silence settled over them. Silver stars glittered against the blue-black sky. In the distance, sparrows sang to their faraway companions. The song from earlier spun its wheels round and round in Tim’s mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it you’re over Red Robin?” Tim teasingly said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kon chuckled softly. “You know, the more I think of it, the more I realize I didn’t, you know, like-like him more than I was weirdly obsessed with him. Like, I don’t even know who the guy is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rubbing the back of his neck, Tim swallowed thickly. His heart pounded in his ears. He muttered under his breath, “I know what that’s like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never stood a chance with him,” Kon continued. “But with you… it feels like I can take a hundred.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grabbing Kon’s face, Tim surged forward. Their lips collided in a symphony of cherry balm and electricity. Tim’s eyes slid shut. Kon’s arm circled Tim’s waist as he returned the kiss and the latter melted into the gentle touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they pulled apart, Tim said, “You don’t take chances, you make them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then, Red Robin.” Kon tucked a strand of hair behind Tim’s ear and smiled. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Kon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Ready?” Tim asked.</p><p>Kon adjusted the sleeve of his denim jacket. “Ready.”</p><p>Tim tiptoed over and placed a peck on Kon’s lips. “Good luck.”</p><p>“You too.” Kon hooked an arm around Tim’s waist and returned the kiss. “<em>Red Robin</em>.”</p><p>The halls didn’t feel as long as before, but it felt like walking through quicksand. Each step was heavy; muffled. Or maybe that was just his heart pounding in his ears at the anticipation of Bart and Cassie waiting on the other end.</p><p>He could do this. He came too far to let Luthor have his way and too far to let Bart and Cassie make the same mistake.</p><p>Kon found them outside of the closed door. Bart was sitting cross-legged on the floor, tapping a beat on his knees as though they were bongos. Cassie, on the other hand, leaned against the wall, blowing bubblegum bubbles and playing with her slap bracelets.</p><p>“Guys!” Kon exclaimed.</p><p>Rolling her eyes, Cassie scoffed, “What are <em> you </em> doing here?”</p><p>Bart paused his drumming and stood up. “I called him.”</p><p>“Why?” she asked. “He’s just gonna stop us again.”</p><p>“Exactly,” said Bart. He turned to Kon. “Luthor’s still in a meeting, but he’s supposed to finish up real soon, so whatever you have, you got two minutes, max.”</p><p>“Alright.” Kon took a deep breath.</p><p>“Nice top, by the way,” Bart added. </p><p>“Thanks. Anyway,” Kon glanced at his friends. “I don’t think taking this deal is good for us in the long run. Sure, we’ll be famous and make money, but we’d also be deceiving our fans. People can tell when someone’s not genuine and starting our career on lies would go against everything we stand for.”</p><p>Cassie bit her lip, thinking hard.</p><p>Right as she opened her mouth, the door swung open. A line of identical, stoic-looking, beige-suited businessmen marched out like a line of toy soldiers (seriously, what were they doing in the music industry?). Perhaps it was just the light, but Lex Luthor didn’t seem as towering or foreboding as Kon last remembered.</p><p>The man stared straight at Kon. “Please, come in.”</p><p>Kon didn’t break eye contact with Luthor as the trio stepped into the office.</p><p>“Have you made your decision?” Luthor asked.</p><p>Before Kon could say something, Cassie stepped forward. “Yes, we have, Mr. Luthor.” She spared a glance at Bart. “You make a compelling deal and opportunities like this come once in a lifetime.”</p><p>There was that reptile smile again. “I’m glad you agree, Miss Sandsmark.”</p><p>She held up her hand. “I’m not done. Opportunities like this come once in a lifetime, but they’re meaningless if we’re not true to ourselves.” Looking at Kon, the faintest smile formed on her face. She turned back to Luthor. “What we do might not mean much to you, but there are people out there who feel alone and are scared to be who they are, and it’s our responsibility to give everyone a chance to be heard. Therefore, we must respectfully decline your offer.”</p><p>Luthor sniffed. “Very well. I wish you the best of luck in your careers.”</p><p>As soon as they were back in the lobby, Kon threw his arms around Cassie, beaming from ear to ear. “I knew you’d come through.”</p><p>The corner of her lip turned up. “There are other ways to make it big. At least whatever happens now, it’ll be on our terms.”</p><p>Kon pulled Bart into the group hug. “And no more fighting—we’re in this together.”</p><p>Cassie mentioned offhandedly, “Hey, Kon, aren’t you usually listening to Red Robin by now?”</p><p>“Shoot, you’re right!” Kon pulled out his phone and slipped one earphone in.</p><p>
  <em> “—nd nonbinary pals, you’re listening to The Bat’s Cave. I’m your host, Red Robin, and I’d like to welcome you to my last show. This segment is called: ‘I Kissed A Boy and I Liked It.’” </em>
</p><p>The sun warmed Kon’s skin as the trio stepped out of the studio. The air felt crisp and brand new. Bart yelled, “Shotgun!” and darted towards the parking lot. Cassie chased after, keys in hand, giggling. Instead of trying to keep up, Kon slowed down, took off his sunglasses, and snapped a mental picture of the moment.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>~ Six months later ~</b>
</p><p><em> Ding-dong</em>. </p><p>Kon bounced on his heels as he waited for someone to answer. His songbook was tucked under one arm, and bookmarking it was a green carnation he found earlier that morning. The gentle spring breeze ruffled his hair, while the perfume of rain, cherry blossoms, and fresh-cut grass mingled in his nose. He whistled a familiar melody and the songbirds seemed to mimic him. It never ceased to amaze him how big the Wayne home was.</p><p>The door swung open. For a second, Kon thought someone was punking him because he didn’t see anybody. Until he looked down and saw a grumpy-looking child in a turtleneck.</p><p>The child scoffed. “Timothy, your partner is here.”</p><p>A reply came from down the hall. “We’ve been over this, Damian. Just send him in.”</p><p>“Tt.” Damian motioned Kon in, scowling. “I still do not understand what he sees in you.”</p><p>Kon ruffled the kid’s spiky hair. “You and me both, squirt.”</p><p>Like a cat, Damian hissed and slapped the hand away. “I maintain my stance that your brother is the superior Kent. After your dog, of course.”</p><p>“Not gonna disagree,” Kon laughed. “Krypto’s got a way with people.”</p><p>Halfway down the corridor, Kon felt a weight wrap around his shoulders. He whipped his head and nearly headbutted a dark-haired guy with a white streak. The latter slapped Kon on the back with the force of an overenthusiastic football player.</p><p>“Kon, my man!” he exclaimed. “Good to see you!”</p><p>“Um, yeah, you too, Jason,” Kon replied. “Where’s Tim?”</p><p>Jason squeezed Kon’s shoulders so hard that they felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets, an exaggerated smile on his face and a borderline murderous glint in his eye. “He’s in the basement with your other friends. But before you go down there, let’s go over the ground rules, shall we?”</p><p>Kon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Here they go again.</p><p>“Rule number one,” Jason began. “Doors stay open the entire time. And to make sure that happens, Alfred will be periodically checking in.”</p><p>“The butler or the cat?” Kon asked.</p><p>“Yes. Rule number two: no borrowing anyone else’s clothes. I know we’re the same size, but if you touch my stuff, I will slice you like a tomato,” Jason said casually, the same way someone would explain how to play a board game. “And rule number three—”</p><p>“Jay, quit it with the repeating shovel talk,” chimed another voice. “Once was enough.”</p><p>Kon chuckled. “Nice to know someone’s on my side. Thanks, Dick.”</p><p>“But,” Dick continued, “since you started it, I might as well finish.”</p><p>Jason made a “go ahead” motion.</p><p>“Rule number three,” Dick stated. “If you hurt Tim in any way, we will <em> all </em> take turns slicing you like a tomato.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t that be dicing then?” Jason asked.</p><p>“Tt, with this many of us, it’s essentially pureeing,” Damian piped in.</p><p>Kon relaxed when he felt a hand slip into his own. He leaned down and placed a kiss on the tip of Tim’s nose, ignoring the brothers’ sounds of disgust. Tim wrinkled his nose in a way that made Kon’s heart skip a beat.</p><p>“Bart and Cassie are getting set up,” Tim said. “We might wanna head down before—”</p><p>The smoke detector screamed. Nobody moved—other than Damian, who got up to pour himself a glass of orange juice.</p><p>Kon cursed. “I told him to keep the stick tricks outside!”</p><p>The wooden stairs groaned as he and Tim sprinted downstairs, where they were met with a gray cloud. Just beyond the fog, Bart was smothering the flames with a throw blanket while Cassie fanned the smoke away with a magazine.</p><p>Tim and Kon crossed their arms like disappointed parents.</p><p>Bart coughed and pointed at Cassie. “She did it!”</p><p>“Shut up, you were the one messing around.” She chucked the magazine at his head. “I gotta use the bathroom. Kon, can you help Bart move this,” she gestured to the drum set, “to the other room?”</p><p>As Kon began disassembling the instrument, Tim said, “I’m gonna grab some waters. Radio shows are dehydrating as heck.”</p><p>“Wait!” said Kon. “Before I forget…” He plucked the carnation from the notebook. “I saw this on the way here and it reminded me of you.” </p><p>Kon tucked the flower carefully in Tim’s hair, right above his ear. Tim beamed.</p><p>“I love it.” He leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on Kon’s lips. “And I love you. Be right back.”</p><p>Stunned, Kon turned to Bart. “You heard that, right?”</p><p>“Heard you two being totally gross? Yeah,” Bart replied.</p><p>“He loves me,” Kon whispered. A grin broke out on his face. “He said he loves me!”</p><p>“I know. I was there,” said Bart. “Now help me with these cymbals.”</p><p>The new studio still had a lingering paint smell as the boys lugged Bart’s equipment inside. Three of the walls were a muted red, lined with band posters and vinyl plaques; the fourth popped out with its white background and rainbow splatters, as though someone held a paintball war in there. In the center, two wooden office desks and a blue folding table were pushed together in a triangle, surrounded by four swivel chairs. An unlit “ON AIR” sign hung over the doorway. The numerous computers doubled as space heaters—one for each person, with microphones and headsets too.</p><p>Kon began scrolling through the playlist on his laptop—thousands of songs, all waiting for their turn to be on air. “What should the first one be?”</p><p>Bart opened his mouth.</p><p>“Not the booty song.”</p><p>Bart closed his mouth.</p><p>“How ‘bout Panic! At the Disco?” Kon asked. “What’s that one song?” He snapped his fingers. “‘Hey Look Ma, I Made It.’ Tim likes it.”</p><p>Speaking of whom, Tim entered just then, hugging four large water bottles to his chest. Cassie followed, chucking her makeup pouch into a half-open backpack in the corner.</p><p>“We good to go?” she asked.</p><p>Tim set the bottles down. “Yep, just in time.” </p><p>Kon licked his lips in anticipation. Triumph was a sweet nectar he could slowly sip all day, but there was much to be done. He flicked on the sign above the door while everyone else scrambled to get in position.</p><p>“And we’re on the air in five…”</p><p>Bart turned on his computer—</p><p>“Four…”</p><p>—Cassie closed the door with her foot—</p><p>“Three…”</p><p>—Tim adjusted the volume knobs on the mixer—</p><p>“Two…”</p><p>—and Kon settled in his brand new swivel chair.</p><p>“One.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Again, major thank you to all of my artists and betas and the folks at the Batfam Big Bang. It has been an honor and I can't wait to do this again!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is my fanfic for the Batfam Big Bang 2020! </p><p>For art pieces and a playlist related to this fanfic, see <a href="https://incorrectbatfam.tumblr.com/post/631187890930630656/batfam-big-bang-2020">this post</a> on Tumblr.</p><p>Gifted to the artists and betas who helped along the way.</p><p>The title is derived from "Radio-Friendly Pop Song" by Matt Fishel.</p><p>New updates will be posted every Monday.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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